I am Wanting
like cracked heels for oil,
so drained and sore from being that
still, needy mass, that
mangled blanket left unfolded on the couch,
that warming thing, that ornamental thing, that
I’m tossing my dirty clothes
into my mother’s hamper
like a child.

I am Wanting
that other’s breath in bed
so badly, so I’m pretending
the noise machine’s shoreline rise and fall
is the rise and fall
of that other’s breath in bed--
badly so my lips find the back of my hand
like a child.

I am Wanting
even after I fall asleep stuck like that,
lying there like a slit fish on ice.
I’m dreaming awful dreams
of sludge coming out into me
from that other, or dreaming bad dreams
of getting lost trying to find a bathroom
like a child.

I am Wanting:
waking up nauseous
and hungry,
thirsty
with a pressing bladder,
lonesome and grimacing
at the phone. I’m needing some other
for feeding me and pottying me and dressing me,
first-flu-season-ailing
like a child.