Don’t forget, I smell like bread,
yeast and garlic. Sometimes cloves.
I am lonely and tease you with the threat
of military school if you don’t give me
the details of your day. Remember
how sometimes you’d find me crying in bed,
hiding, but not very well, and when you asked
I would say “I don’t know why.”
Don’t forget how I hoarded my special blue pens,
drizzled honey on everything,
and how we read together in bed at night,
lined up under blankets, sharing and stealing warmth.
Try to forget how sharp my voice could be,
and how often, and how loud.
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.
Don’t forget me mowing the lawn in my pajamas.
Or my pink bathrobe, puffed out in the morning
when I come in from the coop, eggs in my pockets.
Remember when you made me toast
when I was sick, and when you washed the blood
down my legs, scared to hurt me, almost crying yourself,
after crashing Gertrude. Don’t forget the wine
on my breath, hot and risen, as I lean in to kiss you goodnight,
and my hair sweeping across your arms,
a tickle, and fleeting.