What Can I Say: A Love Poem

What can I say
that is not broken
already by someone else?

I put this word here and it
is your mouth on my belly.
I put this word here and it is
a child who grew up to work
and die in the twin towers.
He called his mom to say goodbye.
I put this word here and it is
a rainy night spent alone with
a couple bottles of gin. I can't
see anything when I'm
drunk. So I put this word here and
it is a cow who moves along
a foot path or leans against
a fence and the weight is a weight
on the lungs. I put this word down
and it tells me everything I ever
needed to know about loneliness.
I pick this word up and it is
first a twin sister, then so
many people I could dedicate
each breath to someone
different and never be done.
So I breathe out --huh-- that one
was for you. It is the word
as you say it. So I breathe out --huh--
that was for my daughter, the first
born. So I breathe out --huh--
that was for my son. It is
his arm as he threw it over me
when I held his two-year-old self.
So I breathe out --huh-- that was
for the homeless man whose arm
is thrown on a picnic table
as he lies on the bench. And so
I breathe out. I breathe
out. I breathe out --huh-- that one
was for me.

Copyright Louise Robertson