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IN BED WITH THE RADIO   You’d turned against me There’s safety in knowing, I thought Like lying in bed with the radio, listening to the war; cocooning ourselves in the brutality across the border   Trying to dodge history – bloodied, lashing out to protect its young – we played dead as best we could Lie still, don’t make a sound; maybe it’ll leave you be   I’ve had nosebleeds for years, I said, and look how even now the blood comes in bursts, like this crackling transmission from some Bosnian partisan’s radio     *     THE ONE I SHOULD BE TELLING   Cold as cold cream you were that’s what I remember of that summer retreating into shadow of your words, like crawling under the boughs of a tree   The slight change in pressure that makes a breath a sigh and the troubles in your breast rattling like rusty cans   Sometimes, I mistake you for your memory To touch you now, I must reach across the mirror of remembering   You were, back then, the one I should be telling now