365 Poems/55 I wonder if you dream of being gone
I wonder if you dream of being gone
Can you teach me how not to be afraid?
I am afraid, and I hate myself for it.
I feel like I’m shrinking, even though,
really, I know it’s you. It’s almost as if I
can visibly see your body withdrawing into itself.
Your skin is as smooth as warm glass tonight.
I imagine you and I fitting together again,
like joints of woods.
This morning, before you fell asleep,
you said not to wait for you to be gone,
that I need to go home and eat the plums
while they are still ripe. I refused, but
by then, you weren’t awake to hear me.
You were fine saying that single, solid word.
But I couldn’t, and I’m still unable to.
It’s like something I gargled with this morning,
and spat out. I’d rather fuck you to the end
than talk about it.
You haven’t finished your third re-reading
of The Return of the King. I pick it up,
move the bookmark, and start to read aloud,
to you, to the room and the nurse standing by.