Tell Me

I am going to stop thinking about my losses now

and listen to yours. I'm so sick of dragging them

with me wherever I go, like children up too late

who should be curled in their own beds

under the only blanket that warms them.

I am going to send them home while I stay

at this party all night with the loud music pumping

and the dancers moving gracelessly under the lights

and the drinkers spilling their scotches on their sleeves.

I am going to join them. I'm going to drink until

I'm so wasted I forget I have children, I'll dance

until I ache, until I make a spectacle of myself.

So tell me. Tell me how you hurt

even though I can't help you. Tell me

their ages, how they keep you up nights,

how sometimes you wish they were dead

but keep finding yourself gazing at them

tenderly while they sleep. Then, please, dance with me,

hold me while we fool ourselves

they aren't out there, pressing their damp

hollow faces to the windows. Tell me

that if we kiss a new one won't start to slip

from each of us, tell me you can't already feel

the little hole burning in your side

or hear the others moving over to make room,

shrieking and clapping with joy.