my own murder

time is no longer my accomplice

i can’t get away with my own murder
the way i could when days were without number

now each sun is an accursed gift
mine not to squander but to hoard jealously
to protect fiercely from flood and famine

i raise my fists in worshipful defiance
to find that they rest in my lap, open,
waiting for dreams to fall through
into the future of my past

the uptake

isn’t it curious
how often we counteract
thoughts of mortality
with blatant sexuality

as if a kiss could remove
the stains of iodine and death
from our hands

as if penetration could negate

as if the breath of a lover
could bring our disconsolate soul
back to life

the act of infiltration
and withdrawal
echoed until

we are scoured out
shells of bodies
wreckage brimming with

would we glow in the dark
if we opened our eyes?

the eighth plague of egypt

at 9:36 PM on a Wednesday
my phone whined like a petulant cicada –
(you know the ones, about to croak
in the parched Gobi of August,
about to scatter their carcasses on sidewalks)

I should have guessed from the plaintiveness
of that cellular trill
that it could only be you
traveling back from wherever you were hidden
behind the trees or the reeds or the drums
to smirk knowingly at my ghost.

and the nausea rose up my throat
and the blood rushed through my veins –
my first instinct was to mistake illness for love.
(You know the kind, that causes toes to
pop upward in a disney dream,
about to smother your realities with so much wishing)

and I realized that most of what I felt with you
was not anticipation,
but fear.