because this is what you do.
get up.
blame the liquor for the
heaviness. call in late
to work. go to the couch
because the bed
is too empty. watch people
scream about love
on Jerry Springer. count the
ways
it could be worse. it could
be last week
when the missing got so big
you wrote him a letter
and sent it. it could be
yesterday, no work
to go to, whole day looming.
it could be last month
or the month before, when you
still
thought maybe. still carried
plans
around with you like
talismans.
you could have kissed him
last night.
could have gone home with
him, given in,
cried after, softly, face to
the wall, his heavy arm
around you, hand on your
stomach, rubbing.
shower. remember your body.
water
hotter than you can stand.
sit
on the shower floor. the word
devastated ringing the tub.
buildings
collapsed into themselves.
ribs
caving toward the spine.
recite
the strongest poem you know.
a spell
against the lonely that gets
you
in crowds and on three hours’
sleep.
wonder where the gods are
now.
get up. because death is not
an alternative. because this
is what you do.
air like soup, move. door,
hallway, room.
pants, socks, shoes. sweater.
coat. cold.
wish you were a bird.
remember you
are not you, now. you are you
a year from now. how does
that
woman walk? she is not sick
or sad.
doesn’t even remember today.
has been to Europe. what song
is she humming? now. right
now.
that’s it.
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