BY EMILY BORGMANN
I don’t know how to
take care of myself—
I have to ask you for instructions.
What do you see that I need?
I am sure this is going to cost me—
I know the need is blinding: You, me.
Is it pantomime to hold my arms around
the shape your arms make of me when
you sense I need comforting?
Is it hysterical to stand inside the hoop your
arms, marking my place while you make
coffee and important calls?
Looking through my interior pane:
Do I have anything to offer this
consultation of knives?
I don’t roll for myself little plates of
warm, wet towels to kind my hands.
What a relief to sit and look out at
you, waiting to hold me, once I’ve
soothed myself into waking.
EMILY BORGMANN (they/them) is a poet, essayist, and writing educator. They are the recipient of an Academy of American Poets Prize, a Nebraska Arts Council Fellowship in Literature, and a Champion of Youth advocacy award. Emily’s writing has appeared in such journals as Waxwing, Copper Nickel, The Laurel Review, and Green Mountains Review.
One thought on “Epilogue”
Oh Emily Borgmann this is excellent…
Comments are closed.