We left, as we have left all of our lovers
as all lovers leave all lovers
much too soon to get the real loving done.
—Judy Grahn
“Last chance!” I write. I explain.
But I can do neither. Instead,
gritting my teeth, spitting out
expletives, through them, I begin
to weep. “Applause!” The neon
directive flickers to life a few yards
in front of me – a few moments
before it’s supposed to do so.
Am I really to taunt death this
soon? “Forever is a long ways
away!” The audience nervously
signal intermission. “Gladly,” I
think, gauze in hand, ready to
be mummified (or to mummify?).
By the end, everyone relates to the
disembowelment. “Disembowelment
most relatable and satisfactory,”
the critics either praise or debunk.
I sink into prayer. It is a soliloquy
most foul. I had placed myself
intentionally within reach of
this predicament, this per-
spective, for years. Was I
aiming deliberately for it?
I pray never to wish again.
The set, the entire universe,
disappears into a quick fog.
