Lessons From Dishes and Déjà Vu

I can’t help but crave

the snag as my nail plunges

through laced and clothbound

months, meticulously marshaled,

parceled and parted to

pin and puncture my memory,

palm-oiled, worried thin.

I finger the folds

of foamy old Septembers

and decide not to notice

the moisture seeping

three layers up –

puddling, bubbling,

pooling in your empty cup.

I wish I could sew

this skin into a bowl

to plunge unfettered,

draw up dripping Septembers

and expunge undeterred

the color and stain

from this stitched, furrowing flesh.

I’m afraid of your coffee

and how the smell of it folds me

three years under,

plates full and eyes filled;

but these dishes are chipped,

our eyes fall filmed,

and I sigh as my nail

snags a hole in my shirt.