Sutures

My fingertips are red and aching 

from all the knots I’ve sewn

at the end of your sutures

at the end of every day

In the morning you leave 

your heart in my hands

so you can take on the day

You come home in pieces

Calling out for me

I’m there, scissors in hand

I’m your relief

You’re quiet and 

you’re heavy

You can barely look at me

Right now daylight 

scares you

so you drown yourself

in a lit up screen 

while I sew up your insides,

I remind you:

You said that

maybe we could

climb up the fire tower

even in the snow

We could look out 

over Itasca

I could tell you 

what you need to know 

and then I’d hide

up there for a day 

or maybe a little more

until you’re ready

to come get me

before the frost

completely covers

my hands and feet

I doubt you’ll take me 

to the state park like

you promised you would

We went there once

when your promises 

were still good

So, I’ll sit inside

take another bath 

by the fire

dipping in a cattle trough

shaking the water out

of my hair before

it freezes to my skull

I’ll practice my sewing

while you make 

your way home 

In you come, tired

with nothing to say

You lay down and

ask if your collar

is in the way

I put it aside

and sow you

back up again

You’re off to bed

No kiss, no kind word

No thank you, no nothing 

I’ll undo the stitches 

early in the morning

before I’m really even awake

Take your heart out,

leave it in my pocket 

then I’m back asleep

You’re on your way