I am married to Disappointment.
He holds me in the night when the only
other comfort I have is the warmth
of cotton sheets beneath my skin and
the residue of salt on my lips.
He weaves his arms around my shoulder
blades and lets me rest my head against
his neck. “There, there,” he says.
“Tell me everything.” And I do.
I first became acquainted with
Disappointment at age five
when my best friend surrendered to the renegade
cells waging war on her fragile body.
Disappointment abandoned her for me,
shaking my hand. “We’ll be seeing a lot
of each other,” he said. And we did.
Disappointment followed me down
school hallways and shadowed me
as I sat, innocent and hopeful,
in God’s house. He stood beside me
as the wheels of my dad’s truck rolled
away, leaving skid marks
in their wake, and hovered over me
as I read the scrawled goodbye note
from the boy I wanted to know.
I thought he abandoned me for my
grandmother once as she lay