afternoon snack

// Michael Prihoda

for Patty

i.

they give
me the package

of teddy grahams,
your refused

afternoon
snack

that i diligently
munch

in your stead.
a few crumbs

strike carpet
before

someone finally
bothers to ask

what i think
of everything,

your protruding boniness
& the stench of your cells

fighting for any last
scraps

of protein
or fat

tucked into
any last crevasse

or internal cavity.

ii.

you were all kinds

of hollow & not
in the room

when i cried
that time,

zeroing in
on

the crumbs
from the teddies

speckling the maroon
high-weave carpet,

a kamikaze
sighting its carrier.

iii.

i felt like
a cannibal

when you
came back,

only the graham
wrapper

morosely atop
the fresh crinkles

of the trash bag.

iv.

they let us go
for a walk,

without you,
your limbs unable

to withstand
the pressure

of a Tennessee
roadway

& when we
returned

it was somehow
to a yet thinner you

as we took seats,
listened

as a minted
graduate

proclaimed her story
of healing

& i diminished,
looking at you

in side-mirror
glances,

growing infantile
in thinking

of the miles
separating us

when all i wanted
was you back,

uncomprehending
the abyss of healing,

the way water could
be water

but at the bottom
of a broken well.

v.

a different
body

of yours
came back

to us
from that state,

your snack
became

two pretzel sticks,
a single floret

of broccoli
like the tree

in the garden.
all

of this evil
overwhelming

all
of this good

until time
rights the ledger.