after the fact

passing the night after exotic dancers lounge
a woman in her forties sits next to me reading an article from a book entitled “wreaths make the seasons go round”
she sees me looking at the picture on the opposing page
aren’t they pretty to look at?
I don’t make them, but I sure do think about it
yeah I say—feverish—pushing my hair out of my face yeah

. . .
after he calls
i pile under the blankets
close my eyes and hold the phone against my lips
sometimes a soft voice from miles away is enough
to recover from days worth forgetting

. . .
this morning my eye was black
swollen shut as if i’d been kissed
by the end of a fist
it’s softer now
but i’m not feeling any less fragile
weak and tired from days of fighting off the results of being myself
and waiting for test results
i’ve walked through the rain
to get out among people
to ignore this constant ache that wraps me up
that feels like home