poem: lost

As of yesterday, her ex-husband is dead. She is seventy.
I am twenty-nine, with no idea how I’ll get there.
But I know there was a time I wanted to be seventy with you.

I imagine, if it happens, if you are the one to die first,
when the news hits, I’d ask, what time?
When they told me 7:29pm, I’d strain to remember

what I was doing, at that moment, on that day. The terror
is that I’ll remember that I was not pre-occupied
with something vibrant or vital;

I had just felt nothing.

I am not ready for seventy. To endure this last, patient bite
for choosing to walk away.

The space     between hands and the skin that no longer wants them
The space    between a body split into two houses and lives
The space    between lungs born to expel each other
The space    between the final cruelties that broke our lust in half
The space    from the hand to the phone
The space    that nightly lights into a howl
The sp a ce
The spa c e
The s pa c e

The moment
when your flickering, dying mind strains to frame
a blurred shot of me, when something dimming inside
you says, Lost One. For this, you were supposed to be here.


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