What We Get   My love, I cannot kiss you and it kills me. I have a cold, just a cold, but your body’s no good for that now. Up the hill across the river, we bank on the glory from the maples and we get it, late this year, nearly November, but the gold is here — maples, oaks, beeches. And I’d hate to hurt you with what I have, with this cold, and it kills me I can’t kiss you — you don’t seem sick to me, that’s not your name, I see this medicine, this chemo, this fake fire burning your blood, this October — I won’t go. A hell of a way to get well, my love — I just can’t kiss you and it kills me.                                                         for Marti     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont October 2011