by Neal Kitterlin
I want to kiss the spots where
the tape held the intravenous in
place after you are discharged
from the hospital. I am searching
for a calculus where sickness
plus sickness equals the pink
I want to study the spaces
where they put you back
I want to tally the tiny
scratches on your body from
the invisible cat you heard
in your room, the one that said mew
mew mew in time with your medication.
I want to dance a dance with you in perfect
time with tumors shrinking.
Each movement will signal the closeness
of the next. Each nearness will require
a furthering, a peripheral glance that edges death.