if, my love, by some fine miracle,
i live to find grey hairs on my head and in
and on the fleshy pillowy fingerbacks
then it might not be a testament to our success.
though i love and though you love
we by equal measures destroy; i, killing my urges
to scream when you, with soft tones and sheets try to
bring me to myself. you, biting when i deny
you the melancholia that is your nesting place.
i flaunt pretence, we are young and beautiful.
you revel in distress, we are poor and liberal.
always ascribing a-place-a-point-a-thing to each
flicker of my nostril, each disjointed climax.
i am. it is enough to say that we exist as proof of possibility
to ache. your clean hands and eyes next to mine, burnt
and fat, milked of human empathy.
in breaking bread we form a brotherhood,
in breaking beds we form a parenthood
if, my love, i should die. i should die,
and fall into myth; desecrate my plate-washing abilities,
but always say i lived once,
for what is important is the testament to my success.