NOW, YOU KNOW

You did not know until he came over — you hadn’t seen him in months — that it had been all about his tits. You did not know you could still ejaculate. Now, you know.

No one ever leaves, and returns, to find the place you left. It has disappeared.

You didn’t know about the mice. Now, you know.

You didn’t know you had left something green in the fridge. Now, you know.

You didn’t know how a sun spills over the vacant lot, and the pieces of glass, broken there, glittered like a movie star’s dress. Now, you know.

You didn’t know that the old people, who never escaped to a cabin in the Adirondacks, would bend more than you had known that people bend, they break, their agony is not what is in their heads, they are in agony because they are hungry. They can’t stand up in that silent line long enough to make it inside the food bank. Now, you know.

You didn’t know that there were so many struggles, anticipating them would be impossible. For those who stayed. When prescriptions ran out, the drugstore the old people used, was closed. There is no car to whisk the snow people who try to do their errands. You didn’t know how hard people cling to the ordinary moments, the brushing of your teeth with your finger. The smell from the corpse of the lady you did not know down the hall was at first, a mystery. Now, you know.

You did not know that children, too, would be dressed in black. They would play in a cemetery. Darting in and out of the assembled legs of the masked adults, and the moms were too numb to grab them. You did not know that children experience death differently from adults. Grief is a jealous lover.

Now, you know you knew nothing.