After an attempt, I will probably lay
like a god either in Heaven or the hospital –
no matter what I will no longer be human or alive,
rather a piece of air held under pond-water
and drifting to family members with soggy eyes.

No matter what the man I loved will not
be there to greet me: he, too, is kind of in between
timelessness and *** positions and breathing.

Should I ignore the rabid plea for that reason
or let it brush against my genitals?
The tensing muscles, the ******* goes high & low
like the mood of a tide confused by morning.

No matter what it will not feel pleasant
and pain will accidentally touch my shoulderblade
ignited from the palm of Father God himself –
my mother ate from it, then she died
so she could welcome me like an ambulance.