My boyfriend can compartmentalize pain. He labels, organizes, and files it away. An unnecessary inconvenience – easily managed – that occupies the space it’s supposed to.
Which makes the sweat pooling on his brow
and the distant look in his eye
all that more terrifying and impossible to understand.
When you came out of the operating room, I was so glad you were alive, I say.
That was selfish, he says.
He’s right. I’ve never known this pain
and I’ve never been good
at putting away
my own.