On Houses, And The Building Thereof

Together, separately, we killed our future

And in the ashes, added holy water, and

Moulded what became the end. A worn glove,

Above the city, the half-city, sitting with the

Original pretty sinless angel of my morning and

My life, (and once I never thought of your dad

Straining) waiting to tell me that Pakistan showed

Me he’s not adequate, the half of it that mattered, sat beneath a roof and headline. The headline being that I couldn’t quit, but would before I

Did. And he macerated with the same sharp

Tannins, but for longer, all things considered,

He considered his stronger, without a cork or

Bottle, undecanted, and when feeling ran aground

He recanted. Local honey shipped across, vacuum sealed, and he in his vacuum, mostly still. And when she asked just anything of him, he’d only

Answer, “Yes, I will.”

Last night, I killed yourself, and saw me

In your jeans, stuck, but what luck! Back then

They weren’t mine. I stood grateful, and

Felt the room begin to lean, and spin,

And pulled the arrows from my back.

This wasn’t love or infatuation, but a fear

That anything normal is, in itself, a suicide,

I, though, with roles reversed, the one who died.