Gift of the Magi

You are with me in the McDonald’s 
this time, and I am still the saddest

person here. Your gaze
a hard line at the far wall.

I can feel it gather
in you like a blood clot,

a cyclone—first chill of storm, first gust 
dragging rain through the street. How quiet

you get when I am quiet, how soon 
your hand drops away from mine.

How dark the village goes
when I cannot get my lamp to light.

Sometimes I want to be touched
when I am blank. Instead, How are you?

I ask, and get: You are clearly 
incredibly upset. And I have been,

for three days, but backtrack, 
obfuscate, apologize.

What does honesty matter?

We are both liars: me with my well
of calm, you with the work that keeps you

from nights, from dinner, and now 
lunch. We hear our number called,

and you walk up, ask for a second bag, start
to divide the food. I think of what my dad said

about my mother’s last year of life:
how exhausting it became, hearing

her talk of suicide. How it was almost a relief 
when she finally succeeded, a dread lifted

from the kitchen drawers, the dresser, 
bathtub, every hard stair. I am sorry.

Your hands play soft Tetris, move the last 
of the sandwiches into the second bag,

the paper bright. We walk together
and I laugh with you at the pizza parlor being

ridden by a bulldozer, call it divine comeuppance 
for the sauceless buffalo-chicken pizza

they sent us a month ago—the three-hour 
wait for it, my notorious bad luck. I laugh,

apologize again, kiss you goodbye
at the intersection where we always split.

Thank you for the wonderful morning,
I hear myself say before you cross, before

I start my walk home, paper cup
of Diet Coke cold in my hand. I am giving

you a gift. I am giving you a gift 
I do not know how to take back.

Read more from Issue 20.2.