P. S .

Don’t forget that while my legs
were clamped around the mule’s
ribs climbing a defunct

streambed into the cloud forest
of Costa Rica, I was picturing your lips
pursed as you cut your diaphragm

into confetti, as I, like a sperm
genetically programmed
to swim in reverse, backed

out of our future into Central America
to catch my breath. The mule
didn’t press me, but when the trail

turned steep, it sent my renegade
carcass into a nosedive that ended
in a tree overhanging a cliff.

Like a Hyacinth Macaw
screaming across the gorge,
your laughter smashed against the bars

of my concussion. Brooklyn Bob,
the guide, paid no mind when I declared
I was hunky-dory. He lifted me like an armload

of saplings to the beast and whipped us
all the way to the cloud forest
infirmary, where my leg is elevated

like a sundial in the shade
or the blade of a scissors
in plaster. I know you might

not even bring the tip
of your letter opener to this
tempting, international blue, airmail envelope

overflowing with good news. I know that I’m
a coward and crazy to ask
for another shot, but I gave