That Story Poem by Alix Mangerian

Today,
I read that story you wrote,
The one I loved but you hated.
I remember how you agonized over it,
Scraping your memories across the desk
Weighing them out on pencil tips,
Trying to keep your hands busy and my criticisms quiet.
And then you weren't going to turn anything in,
Remember?
I hounded you—lectured you—pleaded with you.

And then that one lovely moment connected to a hundred others,
And I felt like I was following you through
That messy room in your mind—invited in at last.

It isn't perfect.
Even now, I resist the urge to adjust your punctuation—
Synchronize your verbs.

Would it still be yours
If I did?
Are these little imperfections part of why
I smile every time I read it?

Why I love to use you as my example
But cringe whenever someone points out the obvious,
eyes gleaming with sick triumph.

That was seven years ago. Seven!
How old you are!
How old am I.

And I wear this on my neck as proof,
But I haven't called the doctor, not yet.
And I haven't told anyone
About that feeling when I swallow—
Like threatening tears dammed up against my larynx.

I won't think about that now:
tomorrow
and tomorrow
and tomorrow—