Steven Sanchez – After

Steven Sanchez

Editor’s note: This poem is best viewed on the full width of a desktop or laptop screen.

After

I ride my bicycle

                                              and

then a paramedic asks me my name.

                                              Steven.

She asks me the year.
                                              2016.
                                                            It isn’t. I blame
                                                            the presidential election,

                                                            as if my mind wants to erase
                                                                         the white house,

                                                            this crash,
                                                                                         everything

                                                            that’s happened
                                                                                                      this past year— 

                                                                                           you who left me
                                                           after eight years, 

                                                                            after I cheated
                                                           with a man who would kiss me

                                                                                        in public.

The emergency room doctor says
I may have a brain bleed,
              a concussion,
                               a broken nose
                                              or jaw.

                                                           They dab 

                                                                                                      my brow

                                                                              with gauze

                                                           to stop

                                                                                                      the salt

                                                                              that stings

                                                           my eyes

They ask me how I fell.

                                          I only remember how you woke up
                                          from each seizure and would ask

                                                                                                      What time is it?

Psychosomatic

                                          the doctors later told you,
                                          caused by stress after

                                                           eight years of
                                                                                                      sleeping in
                                                           a bed
                                                                                                      with our two dogs
                                                           between us 
                                                                                                      where our hands
                                                           unfolded,
                                                                                                      had once touched.
                                                           I found
                                                                                                      te amo
                                                           mi amor,
                                                                                                      —that engraved
                                                           tungsten
                                                                                                      halo seemed like it fit
                                                           around my finger. 
                                                                                                      You pawned it
                                                           eventually,
                                                                                                      after
                                                           I found
                                                                                                      you collapsed,
                                                           Tux and
                                                                                                      Teddy licking
                                                           your mouth,
                                                                                                      your lips pursed and
                                                           rigid.
                                                                                                      Without thinking
                                                           I shouted
                                                                                                      Babe
                                                           and turned you,
                                                                                                      I laid by your side
                                                           and held you,
                                                                                                      as if I was
                                                           still your partner,
                                                                                                      cooing 
                                                           wake up,
                                                                                                      wake up, Babe,
                                                           you have to
                                                                                                      leave for work.
                                                           Eventually, you did.

I was pedaling my bicycle

                                          and

you texted me
I don’t feel so well

                                          and

                                                           I sped to your apartment,
                                                           each curb corner
                                                                                           a nightstand,
                                                           each traffic light
                                                                                           a door knob,
                                                           each speed bump
                                                                                           a person not waking,

                                                                          knowing

                                                           If I got home in time,
                                                                          I couldn’t hold you
                                                                                      too tightly—

                                                                                                    I might harm you more.

I ride my bicycle
                                          and
                                                           lose

myself. Consciousness,
                                                           I hope,
               slips
                                          before death
                              like our last kiss
when your lips
                                          bloomed
               into another man.