The doctor tells me, try to pluck out the bad
luck. My throat has questions: who, and where? I wanted
you in my elbow, locked and pointed. Even in the body,
there is memory and still decay. In the life I’m living

it’s so funny how someone can morph like that–
without ever being in the room, the state. The house
started asking me if I really remember you. One day, 
it would show you right here: alongside the current,
the bend in my hand, hidden in my underbelly.       
The next night, you’d be over there: on the other side
of the kitchen, throwing a plate, calling me
by a different name.