Grocery List for a Long Goodbye

I choked on a sob in my
soup today, its carrot ginger heat
an unspeakable kindness.

These days, I find
that warmth can
overwhelm me (even sipped
from wooden spoons).
I well up and blur with the
red window rain in a
hot-seated Subaru.

When I was seventeen and
pre-prescription, I used to lie
clothed in the creek, in its
easing-open elbow, where
neighbourhood dogs went
to drink. I think somehow
wet denim gave
sense to my sickness, its blue
an explainable weight.

These days, I find
sleep sinks like a silver dollar
in the sand. I dream I’m running
late to a fundraiser. I’m the musical
act. Then a cat digs its claws
in my face. Dream pain is
easier, rivering through.
There’s no sense in what
the sieve keeps, just
solidity and size.

These days, this city feels
small. There’s a curly-headed woman
on the bus, on a loud phone call:
“I searched all over
hell’s half-acre, and still
no spring onions.” (And
haven’t we all?)

I can’t take the cold
in the river anymore. I don’t know
how to tell my mother that
there’s no way to know if your jean-weight will
sink you until you’re
already in the river
and that’s why I
can’t have children.

These days, everything’s easy
to swallow. Two red pills, one cream-hued.
A soy latte. Three to eight crossword games
so I don’t hear the news. Sometimes
sincerity makes my stomach hurt, like
a sweetness I can’t quite
digest. I guess that’s why
I smile like the cat; why I
can’t have children. The claws.

I can’t let the cold
touch my teeth anymore. I liked
poker games best before I knew
what we were playing for.

Am I river or absence
of rock?
Am I right? Do I
want to be?