Our Last Day
Together. There is lunch and there is dinner, and boxes
loaded in the car. A few hours of little
said. Sandwiches, both meals.
We could be any two. This, any parting—except,
What I want to say is,
what I want you to hear,
what is it?
The cat curls in an isosceles plot of sun, unaware.
Tomorrow he will rest in a footwell. A day later,
a different apartment, another town.
What does it matter to him?
But you will have to finish the chair
I had meant to reupholster.
It sits bleeding cotton-fill in the den—
and the bush, the burning bush out the window,
you must dig it up—all summer
finger-swift beetles have tatted the leaves.
Come winter, it won't survive.
(You will do this, all, alone. What I want to say is not
is its opposite. But I want, also, truth.)
I know I would not, for all I love you, have my thumbprint
whorl into yours, a perfect match. Still I draw back
from our embrace, close my eyes and count
my many pulses: ankle, abdomen, throat—all saying,