Nine Months

This is a poem about me and my body working through the emotions of my partner getting deployed.

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“Nine months,” I said to my body.

It screamed back, “LIES!”

I can’t tell time like that.

To me, she just dies.

“Don’t worry; there’s FaceTime and photos,

and you’ll be on the phone so much.”

Next, I’ll hear, “Use all your great memories.”

Fuck that—I only accept TOUCH.

Okay, I get it:

This is simply a great loss.

New plan—hug, kiss, feel;

the ways we can fuck, let’s exhaust.

Bask in belonging:

we’ll just sit, be, connect.

Share our last shower and walk—

everything but us we’ll neglect.

Blurry and shaking are the last moments—

squeezing, holding, we must finalize.

Even though this may be good for me,

the cry in my gut remains: fuck goodbyes.