May/Post-December

These days, I only date the dead.

The thing about dead people is that they’re

—not resigned, exactly; perhaps

accepting. There’s something

about having already slid off this

mortal coil that makes it easier;

having suffered the ultimate

disappointment, nothing I do

can really ruin them so badly.

It takes the pressure off. No rush

when the worst has already happened.

The veil, crossed, mutes things—

maybe that’s what makes my faint,

gray-mist kind of love fit better

on the already six-feet-under.

Skin, breath, heartbeat; whatever

physical presence I have,

in our bed, you say that’s enough.

When you leave, I sweep up grave dirt;

before that, I make breakfast:

me, two poached eggs and milky coffee;

you, the blackest coffee I can brew,

so dark and pungent you can just about

smell it. You inhale the steam and say

you love me. Whatever warmth you feel,

beyond everything, is enough

to say it back.