*A work of ten parts originally
6. I wave a hand at
my reflection, and, after
a tic, she waves back.
7. You know she’ll leave eventually,
or you’ll leave,
if you’re fast enough.
The coming departure
stretching roots in your living,
stuffing its flowers under the couch
in coat pockets hanging in the closet,
poked through white linen sheets
folded away in aging drawers.
She finds them and ties their wet stems,
ready to crown your last moments
as the monarch of your memories.
“Did you ever think we’d be here,”
she asks in that curious, sullen voice
When you both lie in bed and the end yawns
between you on the blankets.
She asks, “When you met me, did you think?”
You smile that ugly bitter smile she loves
so much and reply “ I wouldn’t know:
past and present me aren’t speaking.”
The Written State 