hand-in-hand we will let our blood mix
at our fingertips, your bruises from my boney shoulders
will be nothing compared to the scars that hide under
the crimson pools, brighter than the horizon
behind the grey and mist in the sky today.
i knew your plan, i knew it all along
(give me some credit):
part of me hoped to keep you talking because speaking
means aliveness—despite what my mother thinks
no one can speak from beyond the grave
and i feel like i at least deserve some final words.
i probably could have gotten a poem or two
from your scheme, really—
maybe a screenplay because Hollywood eats this stuff up—
but then where would i get my other fourteenthousand poems
for the rest of my life?
twenty-one is too young for a magnum opus
(perhaps i should have told you that).
thou dost creep over all thou may'st be
that poem sitting in your drawer
in 9-point Times New Roman (because i know how much
you like to save paper)?
that is not my blank note, in fact i like to think
it's rather full—
maybe if my poems were clearer they could help.
you just bought me this lovely watch
and i would hate to see it stained red
over its darling silver;
but if that's what it takes then i'll burry it like Richard's wife's cross.
i imagined ripping the death from your hand
and puilling it over myself—
just to see your face
so that you would know what it does.
i am no Jesus
but i would have died
para your resurrection.
SEVEN [rhymes with "HEAVEN"]
we said forever
even if forever is only
45 more minutes.