You

Fool. You used to think a blushing arm that bent
round you in bed, that would extend to you

across a room still crowded with the breath
of friends and pet the dizzy hair above

your party talk-drunk head, could help defend
or even wave away the tiny mess

of rainclouds and the odd, slush-stained galoshes
from the snow globe in your chest. But you

were being young then. Tonight, you brush
the crumbs of birthday cake away from where

you baked it and it sat. Tonight, you get
undressed, and read a bit in bed, and stretch

out into emptiness. You have nothing
to remember. You have no one to forget.

A poem by Malachi Black (Boston Review, March/April 2013)

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