Donna Weaver
POETRY
 
Tactile

I wouldn’t touch the gloves he left in the lobby
because his cuticles were bloody, red and sore.
He wanted me to feel the swelling below his lip.
I stepped back, and said I could see it throbbing.

He is tired of telling me that he is tired, and he rolls
his eyes when I tell him to go home, soak in a hot bath.
He winks, Girlfriend, I’d just love me a bubble bath.
I ask again about his prognosis, hoping he remembers.

The last doctor said without meds, six to seven
months, and with my meds, maybe twenty more years.
He smiles. He’ll stop taking his meds again, and I want
him to die, because I can’t refuse to touch him anymore.

 


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