I want to write about joy—I decide this when I sit down at my desk,
the overwatered succulents lining the perimeter. I don’t
understand the ratio of plant to water to dirt, so I drown
them in what I think is needed. I forget sun.
I forget patience. I try to forget the look death makes—
the Haworthia, the snake plant, my grandmother, the dog.
I wanted to write about joy. Everything is pale.
Outside, winter persists, even though it’s May.
A lover once told me he believed in the risk
of joy, used it to explain away the kiss on my neck.
He’s married now, the risk of joy tattooed on the right side
of his own neck, his new wife’s name on the left.
My friend said I dodged a bullet with that one, I say
I would’ve opened my chest to it.
