Command myself, with simple language
to write you this particular poem

to tell you that I have nothing to say that doesn’t need to be said

that my significance
holds court
on a throne it made, bespoke

from thrift shop plaques and handknits and the giggly
moments where you laughed at my jokes.

–I am only incorrigible because you keep incorriging me–


–it’s harder to say, isn’t it? these things when they turn out good?–

this poem is poking your fingers into soft soil and making pockets to hold seeds that turn into passionflowers — someday

this poem is a hug that squeezes all the broken parts back together into something that looks like almost exactly like the person you were before

this poem is taking your meds and eating a vegetable and getting fresh air and remembering you are loved

this poem is saying thank you for your presence –not– I’m sorry that I worried you

this poem is a portrait

and a mirror


“I’m okay”