A Week in City Jail

        The second time I carried you, I lay

        in orange, cold and curled along the floor,

        re-reading magazines, hoping the door

        might open and erupt a breath of day.

        I spoke, and meant to wonder what you’d say,

        but couldn’t bear to, so I read some more

        and scribbled pencil prayers to implore

        your heartbeat, pink and red; mine, cement grey.

        Outside, my body dropped you like a stone.

        I gasped and grasped but lost my grip again—

        where once were two I thinned to one, alone.

        I searched but failed to find you with a pen,

        to reach you itching deep in every bone,

        to find a word to name you but Amen.