There’s a portion of him I want to keep
tucked in a pocket, warm and safe and secure.
Tears dried and hurts soothed.
Fixed.

There’s a portion of him I want to keep
in the palm of my hand, twitching and sighing.
Smiles and astonishment.
Excited.

There’s the esplanade and the bluegrass
the summer rain and the dragonfly
the national treasures I didn’t know about
and The Dance that I am meant to paint.
There’s the rejection and the hurt
the confusion and the frustration
the feeling disposable.

the sound of his voice.

I can’t keep a portion
He is not a chicken to be quartered
the white meat discarded for the far superior dark
He is the whole bird
more than my plate can hold