Charlie’s Story

Before your hands,
there was echo chamber waiting.
Fluorescent questions.
A thousand eyes looking in,
none staying.

What is time
to the untethered?
A bowl always full,
yet hunger persists.
The scent of elsewhere
on strange shoes.

Then —
my body recognizes salvation
before my mind catches up.
Tail semaphoring joy,
an ancient message:
I know what you are.
I know what I was.

Did you think I couldn’t tell?
Your hands speak the language
of second chances.
I am well-versed in the grammar
of almost-too-late.

Now I dial my happiness
up to eleven,
earthquake-wag my certainty
that miracles wear sneakers,
carry car keys,
know exactly
which chin-scratch undoes
the memory of before.

I am your yes-yes-yes,
your what-took-you-so-long.
Every day I crown you
my choice-maker,
my after-all.

This eager body knows
what it has escaped.
That’s why the leaping.
That’s why the face-kisses.
That’s why everything
is better than bacon
when it comes from your hands.