I learn to distrust wealthy heirs,
their enviable bone structure.
I gather that a coma is just another word
for sleeping off a season,
and that even then, no one dies forever.
When Stefano DiMera’s car catches fire
and careens off a cliff, he’s back
the next season, as if there were never a car
or a cliff. Still, I know real death
is real. But equally real
are Marlena’s demonic possessions
that come and go like colds.
I learn the most about love.
Even at five, I know I want
someone like Roman Brady
to bring me back from the brink
of amnesia, to cup my face,
palms pressing into skin,
like he’s kindling a soft-focus fire.