I Pour Arnica Into My Palm

I pour arnica into my palm and

begin to massage the tight cords

at the back of your neck.

You, who are the image epitome of my happiness.

Only in your company do I

concentrate and hold together. Living

with you attunes me to the various

distinct moods that make me whole.

But what do I give in return?

Marriage, a divination of resonant relations.

Until right before our eyes, within minutes

of coming into contact with air, the rich

colors of the freshly excavated fresco

begin to fade to a dull grey.

Narrative, you say, is just one way of navigating time.

And those perceptions culled

by the restraints of narrative

become available to other trajectories.

Meanwhile, the future blows toward us without handholds.

It is a gaping. An already. A maw.

What happens when the mind is no longer a place of duration?

If you want to resuscitate your destiny, you joked

early in our relationship, start with the present. Which

is when, for the first time, I took in the resolute

openness of your face.