Look, if you leave me tomorrow,
I will first go
to your side of the bed and
lie there.
I  will fit my body into the shape of yours
whose frail form has already been imprinted in the thin mattress.
I will place my palm where yours once was and I will memorize every rise and
every fall of your body
every curve
every straight line
every aching vertebrae that you never complained of
every stitch you never told me about
because you are stronger than anyone I know.

If you leave me tomorrow,
I will throw open your dusty cabinet doors
bury my face in your clothes
and I will smell your smell.
What is your smell?
I will smell you and pretend that
I'm burying my face
in you

If you leave me tomorrow,
I will die.
I will die.
I will die.
Maybe not all of me,
but a chunk that's half times two of me, that's for sure.

If you leave me tomorrow,
I will run out of the house
and visit that pile of debris overlooking the sickening city
my sanctuary
after you
and I will ache.
I will ache.

If you leave me tomorrow,
I will grab my pen
and write down everything about you
from the way your hair falls to the way you never, ever said
"I love you."
and that's okay because I will write about the way
you loved me with your fingers
with your slanted eyes
with your lifted brow
I will write because I am scared that I will forget
the little things that make you you.
your precision
your perfectionist ways
your scientific mind
your slow, strong stride
the way you tap the jar when the coffee's almost gone
because you hate wasting things and
I will remember that and hate the way
I am wasting.
I will create another you in my mind
one that
won't
leave me tomorrow.

I swear, if you leave me tomorrow, I'll...

I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.

I have been breathing deeply lately
trying to find permanence I think

Because the money will not stay
and the car will not last
and the days turn to nights
and I sleep for tomorrow
and not for the dreams

I have been lost in wonder

And I wonder if there is a sound
for the breath of the spider
that Delia has just sprayed with raid

Or if there is a sound
for the parting of clouds
that reveals the sun

Or if there is a sound
for roots breaking a seed

And if that sound might be similar
to what my bones do sometimes

And right now
safety sounds like the click of the lock in the frame

and peace sounds like the hiss of the can seal breaking

and happiness sounds like the suction of lips
to my neck
to her neck
to our mouths

Each sound is a second
maybe less

Like being under hypnosis
snap
snap
snap

And as far as permanence goes
I have enough

My little brother cuts himself
And I wonder about the scars

Imagine that they are more like
the lines inside the trunk of a fallen tree
An indication of how long he has lived
or how fast he grew

and time is a funny thing now
Because it is easy to forget how old he is
because of how old he looks
and on the inside
who knows

I just think of counting rings
on a fallen tree stump
like a warped record

after the day grows quiet
if I placed a needle to the wood
What song would it play?

I,
a casualty,
          of the absence of your love
                              of a war with no cause
                                       of a memory now lost

I remember you like accidental
photographs: sun flare, skin,
the tops of trees. Knees. Your shirt-
sleeves in a dove grey breeze. (I arrange
the photos like a slow striptease.)

I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus
With tigery stripes, and a face on it
Round as the moon, to stare up.
I want to be looking at them when they come
Picking among the dumb minerals, the roots.
I see them already -- the pale, star-distance faces.
Now they are nothing, they are not even babies.
I imagine them without fathers or mothers, like the first gods.
They will wonder if I was important.
I should sugar and preserve my days like fruit!
My mirror is clouding over --
A few more breaths, and it will reflect nothing at all.
The flowers and the faces whiten to a sheet.

I do not trust the spirit. It escapes like steam
In dreams, through mouth-hole or eye-hole. I can't stop it.
One day it won't come back. Things aren't like that.
They stay, their little particular lusters
Warmed by much handling. They almost purr.
When the soles of my feet grow cold,
The blue eye of my tortoise will comfort me.
Let me have my copper cooking pots, let my rouge pots
Bloom about me like night flowers, with a good smell.
They will roll me up in bandages, they will store my heart
Under my feet in a neat parcel.
I shall hardly know myself. It will be dark,
And the shine of these small things sweeter than the face of Ishtar.