I can write a poem about something else
about something that isn't about you
and what you did
and what you did
to me.

If I try I can I'm sure
write something pretty
something clever
about something whole
unbroken
mad with hope.

I don't have to write
about what I know
about what I breathe
eat drink sleep dream
I don't have to ooze again from my tired wound
if I wrap it thickly enough in obscuring gauze.

There is no question
that I could write and think and feel
about something that isn't you
and what you did to me
to us—
I need only begin.