the abortion & intimacy ever after

his note read: i found this.  is it yours? 

     

                         “death photograph

       champagne flutes and violin bows and

       kissing closed the gaps.  longtight embraces

       and we shared photographs of since thens

      and then on that page i saw your crushed windows,

      and his blue lips a rusted hole,

      his body a swaddled and torpedoing

      jag of empty

      snagged in that snapshot of his 

      birthday.

      ...and a hidden coffin inside me emerged

      and the hotel walls were 

      too thin

      to stop my unearthed guts springing free"

and, i thought:  haven’t we been here together, for all of it neverending?  

and i wrote back:  wouldn't it be weird if it weren't? 

i wrote:  yes.  it is mine.  



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previously published in Breadcrumb Scabs, March 2011