2006 - Vol. 3, Issue 6

He wouldn't kiss me,
said it was too weird.
Even though he'd begged me for it
five thousand times
before that day in the theater.

One day we were at the movies,
the next I was in a wheelchair.
Half my face was frozen,
the other half pleading
for warm breath on my cheek.

A simple act of want
after the surgeries.

The new, bright white shower chair was a pain.
I was going to have to become more self–reliant.
He couldn't do everything.
After all, he had a job.
So I went to my parents' house.
He said when it was all over, I should move back.

But it is my life,
and I am crazy about my weakened body, cross–eyed days.
my half–frozen face and my taped glasses.

I curse it
when my hand shakes lifting a glass,
and my words come out slurred.
Old photo albums make my head ache,
but I still keep them out for visitors —
See how pretty my smile was?

And I still answer his phone calls.
He is greasy with guilt;
questions ooze through the earpiece —
asking how I'm doing
when what he really wants to know is:
is my face fixed yet, is my limp
gone, is my balance back?

No, no, and no.
No to everything.
No to his want to see me again.
Like that will somehow erase
it all for him.