Your overdose could keep you longer
than my compulsions.
Sit with your ribs open.
Bring a jacket but don’t wear it.
Keep your backpack between your knees
or on the next cushion, not on your lap.
It’s best if you first take a shower that splinters your scalp
with cold because it reminds you how to breathe.
Sit on the sofa, not the chair. It’s okay to ask how she’s doing.
It’s okay that you can’t help but swallow the sound
when a drawer opens. Don’t touch
the nape of your neck or the curtain hem
over the open window; it hangs on a rod that slips.
Everytime she talks, take a mint from the glass bowl
between you. Take two and keep one for later.
Take two compliments if you can get them,
two sheets of paper to draw on, two markers.
Together, we’ll hoard the clinic.
Remember that when you’re finished,
lunch still won’t be ready.
Anyday she might move. At home,
the little hummingbird feeder
will be half emptied
if you remembered to fill it.