Wrists by James Miller

 

​

Sick with guilt,

heavy inside.

Is it time?

I shudder at the thought—

 

white wristband, blue gown

too tight, too loose,

too much, too late—

the ache of missing you

 

gripping my abdomen.

Let me come back to you

one day, eyes un-sunken,

like the birds in the spring.

 

Can you feel me

on the April horizon?

Don’t lose sight of me now—

find me in your wrists

 

and cracked lips.