Twelve years after, you spoke.
I sat in the meeting room trembling
waiting for you to cry.
Your pressed suit
your composure shook me.
No. You don't have to tell us.
No. You don't have to tell me.
I thought I was protecting you.
You talked about it as if she were a stranger.
Lacerations.
Orbital Fractures
Blood loss.
Coma.
Naked.
Gagged.
You told us you didn't remember.
I remember for you.
I remember the place in Central Park where you were left for dead.
I remember the ER where they brought in a priest for last rites.
I remember it all.
You smiled at me.
You understood.
Your need to speak
stronger than my fear of listening.
You showed me with a dancer's poise
a runner's grace
what the heart would allow.
You gave us
the gift of your possibility
already open, unwrapped,
asking nothing in return.