Enabler

Originally posted 7/23/2003.  The second-oldest poem on this blog.

Call me black ice,
the patch on which you skid.

Call me your shadow’s lasting fragrance
for how our bad nights sting you raw for days.

Call me water on granite,
wearing you down over time.

Call me your sad sink — full for days, smelling of bones,
old salad leavings, greasy teacups.

No matter what you call me,
I will look back at you tenderly.

You shine more brightly
whenever I am the dark.

You seem more right
whenever I am your worst past mistake.

You seem more
whenever I seem less.