I.

There is a symbolic “X” on your wrist

in red band-aids.

Your wrist is a slender pack of meat wrapped

in the brown paper skin of your arm.

Your arm is in a small clerk-printed photograph

that I am taping to a window.

Clouds that look like mud in the dark water of the night sky

slide from the window to reveal a full moon.

Your image glows in its back light

and I

cannot decide

which is more haunting.

What was it that you said?

We are married to misery and

we should only let it go.