I want to start by saying that I am in love with someone who has a chronic illness.
I want to start by saying that I research fecal transplants, pituitary gland tumors, Lyme disease, ME/CFS, antibiotics, immune boosters, immunosuppressants, anti-fungal agents, magnetic therapies, hormone deficiencies, gluten-free carbohydrates, ashwagandha, stevia, and Japanese knotweed.
I want to start by saying that this morning I advised my love to swallow his spit in order to strengthen his immune system.
I want to start by saying I need to stop giving advice.
*
I want to start by saying that I am not living in my home.
I want to start by saying that I have possessions in a small apartment in Tucson, Arizona. Also in a 5×5 indoor storage facility, also in Tucson. Also in my ex-wife’s garage. Also piled inside a 9,000-square-foot warehouse in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. I also have a small shelf of books, some files, an Aeropress coffee maker, two stainless-steel salad servers, a stainless-steel ladle, a nearly six-foot drawing I drew and gave to my parents for their anniversary almost 40 years ago, and a large gouache, painted by my mother, with vertical blue and black brushstrokes that seen together look something like a dancing woman.
I want to start by saying that several drawers of clothes are in Florence, Massachusetts, where I am now. The gouache and the drawing are all I have from my mother’s last apartment.
I want to start by saying what is home.
*
I want to start by saying that my love is lying upstairs on a bed which is on the floor, squeezed between some shelves and a desk, amid piles of books that are mostly not ours.
I want to start by saying that the walls are wrapped in cheerful yellow beadboard and the branches of a large maple tree are visible through the one window in the room.
I want to start by saying that we are not sleeping on the bed in the master bedroom because something in that room makes him nauseous, and the too-soft mattress hurts my back.
I want to start by saying that my love dreams of returning west to live near his family.
I want to start by saying that it’s still raining.
I want to start by saying the green of New England hangs very heavy today.
I want to start by saying that I worry we will be moving to a house with a zip code that adds up to 16 and an address that adds up to 8.
I want to start by saying someone once told me that the number 16 is unlucky.
I want to start by saying that maybe it’s not all bad because together the zip code and the street address add up to 24, which equals a 6, a good number.
I want to start by saying that this morning I looked at houses for sale in Hudson, New York; Chéticamp, Nova Scotia; and Tucson, Arizona.
I want to start by saying that the number 8 is sacred.
*
I want to start by saying I do not love being a caretaker.
I want to start by saying my eyes are open.
I want to start by saying that I miss him right now.
I want to start by saying I feel compelled.
I want to start by saying that I feel love, tenderness, worry. An ache.
I want to start by saying that I feel powerless and lonely.
I want to start by saying that tonight I will cook chicken soup with beets, celery, and carrots, and later I will help him bathe.
*
I want to start by saying that it rained again yesterday.
I want to start by saying that I could not sit still.
I want to start by saying there is no place to hide and the silence is maddening. I’m looking at an ironing board, a dead plant, a pile of unopened magazines, and Facebook, a scrapbook of the present that looks like the past. I’m looking at the cat staring out the front window. I’m looking at my hands, which look veiny and thin.
I want to start by saying that Guibert’s Ghost Image is lying on the floor next to the bed, spine up and open to page 63, where I stopped reading at the point Guibert writes: In a small cardboard box whose initial contents I no longer remember, I had gathered all the photographs taken of me since my infancy that I hadn’t torn up.
I want to start by saying I cannot open a bank account until the end of the month.
I want to start by saying I do not understand the next move.
I want to start by saying that my chest feels tight and it’s hard to breathe.
*
I want to start by saying that yesterday was a lost day.
I want to start by saying that only my right foot is on the ground.
*
I want to start by saying that I have very little time.
I want to start by saying I hear the door open.
I want to start by saying my love has come home.
I want to start by saying I have a lot of time but I wait until the last minute to do anything.
I want to start by saying we are now lying down in bed. He is writing and I am writing.
I want to start by saying I would rather distract myself downstairs with the news or the cat.
I want to start by saying I will stay here, lying next to him in the silence.
_____
Samuel Ace’s I want to start by saying is forthcoming from Cleveland State University Poetry Center in October 2024.
