After nine months on the neural-psych ward
Robin walks through automatic doors
into the explosion of day. Light
kisses his sallow face.
Look, he whispers.
Goose bumps cover his skin,
even his wrists where scars
gleam like jewelry.
The first thing we should do, I say,
is find you a place to stay.
The first thing I should do, he says,
is get used to feeling like this.
How’s that, I say.
However I want to, he says.
However I want to.