How I Love Myself
SAMUEL SHENOVA
Once in this museum there was a green couch
where I laid for three nights while my body burned
from the inside out, a mania of dark hopes
twitching my limbs. I couldn’t bare a witness then.
He was in the other room. I was an angel on fire.
That was eight years ago and he’s been gone three,
a grey settee where the pyre used to be. The same
toilet I screamed in just to get something out. Shelves
we used to string lights on for New Years Eve parties.
And jokes I still laugh at. (They were mine anyway).
Today the kitchen smelled of rosemary and lime and
there were pictures and words sizzling in the ash
where nightmares once lived. The supple trunks
teasing spring. Bodies peeping bodies. Everywhere,
a lusciousness I could never keep up with.
Still I can’t help loving the ripening, the lubricating.
The forgetting! I walk just to honor that I can. I breathe
to honor those who can’t. I die to every day so there’s
room for life in the morning. This is where I am
right now. This is how I love myself.