Apostrophe to an Uneasy Collective Pronoun

This is very complicated, Us.

This is lemon nut; this is leaf sludge.

This is Janis Joplin, Us.

It’s Jerry, too, though I’ll never cop to being a hippie sympathizer.

This is what happened to our lips, Us.

Our tongues have grown hungry, Us. Coffee got me through the weekend.

This is rainfall, Us. It is a torrent. It is a keyboard.

Us, where were you until last Wednesday at midnight?

Where were you in the intervening three-plus years, Us?

I think you owe me an explanation. You owe her one too.

This is sticky pad, Us. Orange sticky pad.

This is pink stretchy shirt, Us. Snagged on desk, Us.

I wanted to be a certain pink stretchy shirt, and a certain pair of jeans, Us.

Why is this, Us? Why did I go get cider instead, Us?

This is very spiced cider. This is quite Paxil, us.

This is not chloroform, Us. This is a ratchet. And a spool.

A series of semi-illicit photographs is what this is, Us.

This is the space between our middle parts, our hinges, Us.

This is that space that is also between our brains, our top parts, Us.

This is the ellipse of air in between, the blank space that aches like miles.