A day in your arms is like that movie The Godfather.
It’s pretty much the best.
Every time you scrunch up your nose,
my heart does an anti-scrunch, e.g., expands.
When you laugh, for me, in that moment
it is impossible to feel sad.
And when you yourself are burdened by blue,
I would cut off my arm as remedy.
“There goes the one-armed man,”
folks in town would say.
“He did it for love,” others would reply,
and the elders would nod with quiet understanding.
There are certain Sunday mornings, cereal
and silence, maybe a bird at the birdfeeder,
that fill me with such revelry, to the point
where it hurts all the much more when I remember
that we don’t actually have a birdfeeder,
and we are not actually we – I know this
because I have both my arms still, so I will keep looking
until I find you, can give you mine, can rest in yours.