Checkpoints

The memory takes me back like a checkpoint 

stuck in time and suspended in the jingle

of bracelets on a stranger’s wrist.

The smell of rum,

a convenience store. 

I stand before the fountain drinks —

Your last diet coke. Your last vanilla 

ice cream.

Last rites. 

I think of my last meal and I’m there again, 

pouring over a checkout counter,

can’t count my change, can’t explain why. 

They can’t understand.

No more lipstick —

I can’t wear it anymore. 

I stopped wearing gray,

stopped taking the main road by the hospital,

don’t request the corner room in a hotel. 

Don’t want the corner office of a job.

The memory returns —

The overhead lights. 

Big lights,

hissing, humming, pulse of death.

But you were already dead. That much was true.

I drive at night, 

long stretch of time, too much time to think

on this island.

To be alone. 

The memory returns and takes me back —

The smell of flowers you would have never wanted. 

You told me once, you were allergic. 

The static cling against my stockings.

Platitudes and well wishes that I can’t

in good conscience give to another,

because I know how lazy they felt

upon my shoulders.

Seeing old men cry, or a baby whine, I can’t escape

the last moment.

Hand holding in bed.

Even love now, takes me back.