Two Months


It felt like two years but was more like two months.
I walked into a store one day and bought
forget-me-not perfume, which now strikes me as tacky
and too obvious. What if this goes on for ten years,
Kate asked me, but red leaves were circling the lawn
outside like flying foxes and my wrists smelled cold
and I could only breathe, you know, really breathe
for an hour or two each day. Mostly when I looked up
from my lap and hands with cracking skin that smelled like
forget-me-nots and said, that makes sense, or when I explained
that it felt like time-travel, but I was scientific and still logical
even if I could not remember anything beyond the waiting room
or recognize my own face in the rearview mirror. This is the sort of thing
that would make a great thriller but I hope the screenwriters don’t
do that: there wasn’t any music and movies have the power
to end. The human brain is more shimmering web
than measuring cup and can’t hold the idea
of forever, which is why I think it will all be ok.
Could you live knowing that from now on,
you will always live like this?
I lost the perfume but that isn’t the point.
What I mean is yes,
you could.