the light flickers twice before we forget ourselves

THE LIGHT FLICKERS TWICE BEFORE WE FORGET OURSELVES

1. the sun is not a good god without a mouth / without a mouth we’d be so

lonely / i couldn’t feel my lungs in the water / for days / in march / i lock the

door and anchor the river into the picture of the breakfast you prepared the

wrong way 

2. i’m so sorry i was thirsty then and now every favourite thing in the house is

like everyone else: stained by the beating of its own heart and so many times 

3. i’ve gone towards the field to find my ears hungry for even the

murmur of the machine in your name / i keep swallowing song after song after what i

thought was a dream / yesterday i found daggers in my throat after i’d set

down my toothbrush 

4. i’m afraid the answer to our delusions is still the same / i’m

afraid that i’m not afraid if the answer is i love you so 

5. i love what i cannot digest / even today / my teeth leave footprints into the

apple / even hours / after i drank from your cup i am the same / in the

rearview mirror i am unrecognisable in my new bangs / i promise you don’t

need to look up when i arrive / i promise you / you do not need to look up

when i arrive

6. i promise it doesn’t matter what came first: the storm or the prayer / i prayed

for a close reading of my memory / you could have been anywhere then

7. today i have half a wishbone and a checklist of things / everything else slipped

through my fingers / today i imagine swinging my limbs through your house /

today i carry your suitcase like the first prayer i made to a sober god sober

8. i can’t believe my eyes if i’m looking at you / through the window / our faces

are sleepless in seattle / our faces turning away from every god in the pantheon

/ every god is constipated & i’m tired of the weather inside my room

9. i admit i had everything to do with the fog lifting the sky to reveal a kind of

bird in the early morning beside the mushroom patch / forget all that / here’s

my favourite bug for you and here’s the light as my witness

10. all this light is a hunt / i promise you / we could be bright too

11. nothing happens when we name each other / everything that is important

happens after / i stand on the hill and claw my way in / i admit i say my name as

many times it takes for it to sound like the song you were singing last night

12. the poem ends here with our hands finding a face as gentle as our own / i did

not think my hands were patient / can you tell i’ve been praying? can you tell /

i have been praying / i promise i don't remember the metro station looking

this beautiful ever

I send my money where it’s supposed to go, rent, a candle that smells like the

woods, and secretly to dementia research. I am heartbroken by genetics, the

probability that my mind will outlive my girl’s. I try to get rich. I fall for ill-advised

time shares in every place where they have put in a week of Duolingo. How much

can we cram in there, and they ask, how much of what. Let’s make it so there’s more

to lose to make the loss slower. I am at the doctor for a routine procedure. I have

these once a week. The procedure clears out my neck blockage so the blood flows

correctly to my brain and I may think clearly. I think of my girl. 

Mad because they have once again found us a lease 

that disallows pets and I was promised a dog this 

time. Allow them to remember this too, in sixty 

years, my annoyance. When they cannot name 

me. Much less the dog. My sickness was part 

of the contract already, a yolk we pass back 

and forth. Liquid matter. Their sickness 

something we have to find along the way. 

Like the road to their mother’s house. 

I don’t write the bill pay password 

on a sticky note by the computer 

so I can track when my girl forgets. 

It’s cruel. Most versions of loving

someone for life 

have 

to 

be

Twice We Forget Ourselves

I send my money where it’s supposed to go,

rent, a candle that smells like the woods,

and secretly to dementia research.

I am heartbroken by genetics, the probability

that my mind will outlive my girl’s.

I try to get rich.

I fall for ill-advised time-shares in every place

where they have put in a week of Duolingo.

How much can we cram in there, and they ask,

how much of what. Let’s make it

so there’s more to lose

to make the loss slower.

I am at the doctor for a routine procedure. I have these once a week. The procedure clears out my

neck blockage so the blood flows correctly to my brain and I may think clearly. I think

of my girl. Mad because they have once again

found us a lease that disallows pets

and I was promised a dog this time.

Allow them to remember this, too,

in sixty years, my annoyance. When

they cannot name me. Much less the dog.

My sickness was part of the contract already, a yolk we pass back and forth. Liquid matter.

Their sickness something we have to find

along the way. Like the road to their mother’s house.

I don’t write the bill pay password on a sticky note

by the computer, so I can track when my girl forgets.

It’s cruel. Most versions of loving someone 

for life have to be