The Only Immortality You And I May Share

 
There came the time

I had

to retrieve my eyes from your eyes,

to check my tongue out of your throat,

untwine my fingers from your own

that fist-like fought the withdrawal

without breaking the nails, without breaking

a bone, without

– even –

slicing a nerve.
 
 
You

no longer owe me the destination

of your steps, the location of your

absence, the timetables of your thinking.
 
 
I

no longer awe you.
 
 
I cashed out my life from the bank of you

for no reason other than life,

it is long and it must be stood. I stand it

in my mini-might, I fight

it with my dwindled strength, my bare knuckles

and my patience, and I

stand it

– maybe? – just fine,
 
 
every other time.
 
 
I had some nerve and felt the nerves

of one who skipped the rehearsals, who

stumbled on stage bound and blind, mumbled

dark spells from a sad script

fished out of the slush pile.
 
 
I bore the brunt

of one who hates the plays she plays, who wants to hell

with theatre. The only way was to duck out, hang up my

wig on the top shelf, shed off my second

and third skins, make a new dress with the curtains. But I

was cast

in the longest period drama.
 
 
You no longer

tickle me out of my last breath,

summon the laughter out of me.
 
 
I no longer

coax out the cravings of your mind.
 
 
My god, I lie: I stand it half or nought,

most every other time, I under-

stand this life too right

for the good

of our kind, with-

stand it with the pieced-up remains of my corrupt mind,

my punctured blow-up heart, and my brain that I now

conserve

in brine.
 
 
I subtracted my shares of our futures

for no reason other than death,

it is harsh and potent in me. I tackle it

with my left kick, my mistakes on automatic, I handle it

with feeble defence on repeat, and haggle

with it for mercy.
 
 
There came the time to cut

the heartstrings shooting in-between.

I severed them with a rough knife,

one at a time, one at a time – sometimes

tying them back, until you begged for the butcher,

who doesn’t go round roundabouts, what with the

pigs the geese the cows

waiting their turn in the chamber.
 
 
 
Two years later I piece us back.
 
 
This is our hope and our collage.
 

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