WHEN I CONSIDER HOW MY LIGHT IS SPENT, 1987
by Frida Salmoran
The shadows in my eyes grow in from the sides.
I put my bedroom mirror on the curb
and feel my way back up the narrow porch.
At 2: I take the pills that melt between
my fingers like skittles held for too long–
I know it’s 2 because my partner calls to check.
He’s lost three friends this year alone and
I’ve smoked three packs of cigarettes.
Each burns quicker than the last,
like feeling my own t-cells dwindle.
At 6: I listen for the jingle of his keys and
the gust of Brooklyn heat that follows him.
He reads the funny pages in the Times
until I rest my thumb against his lips.
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