In which this luminous companion
broadcasts shovelfuls of shit
across your barely conscious face.
And memories like live munitions
parade past open windows,
demonstrations by deposed regimes
who’ve taken up in new domains
where they look like you
with straighter teeth.
An interrupted armistice
of which the day is spent in wake—
a trudge across the wilderness
that waited past “he’s leaving”
whose horizon is “he left”
as you ponder the utility of
body as weapon against itself,
subsisting on superlatives
and hired pharmaceuticals.
What privilege to witness young love.
How common to admit you’re lonely.
How grisly to cheer
your own vivisection,
cursing pinned-down purple organs
when perhaps you would be
better served to sever this appendage.
To disinvite the vanities
of standard-issue strangers
and handsome light that tumbles
absence to your pillowcase.
Rend your mourning dress
to find the jewels sewn in the hem.
Your inheritance abounds around you.
This breath. Now the next. Now another.