Gloat

Washed in blood,
crusted over,
shivering, sleeping,
torn by adversarial wind,
breaking down
in salty weather…
I like this so much.
I like it too much, sing
an exaggerated song

of ennobling agony,

offering it as passport
into your circle — giving you

a chance to offer
a comforting word,
to dip into
your cache of care and try

to ease me.  Try to ease me
long enough to gloat about

how my pain disappeared under
your good hands and words. I live
for that. I live for how
distant I can get from you
even as you think I’ll have to stay,

will need to stay.  You forget

what I am, what I’ve been,
how a longing for storm
has gotten me this far,

how much I liked it out there,
how it made me

sing

before I ever knew you.