If I get there before you, don’t look. Don’t jump. Turn
your back to my afterimage,
as you have on each shared
morning when my bones tire of being bones & instead drag
this swan song from bed into sidewalk trot or hallway pace in hopes
of becoming something else,
& go. Trust that mirage
will resolve itself in the pre-dawn blur or the weight of a body
on the mattress behind you.
For the falling, yes, there is always panic.
Or calm. Even as my chest fills with a strange new air, don’t think
of the way hooves become powerless against gravity, pawing for earth.
Don’t ask what it means to be
a creature built for disassemblage.
Lover, there are so many things I forgot to tell you: I was the one
who bedded the tulip bulbs
despite the frost; it was the year
you taught the succulents to finally surrender to overwatering.
I planted my promise like a pit beneath your flank, curling hard
& growing quick like cowlicks
behind my ears. Think of me
when you are unbuttoning your blouse & the darkness starts to spin;
turn the pages until you find
where I abandoned the foxgloves
pressed & bleeding between haven & hazard. Beloved, grow that stone
fruit whole. If it’s true that in Hebrew the word for awe & terror
is the same, give her a name
that means Amen. Build her
a stable from the wood of your womb, just as your galloping
approaches the city’s uncertain
rim. Beloved, we are decoys
of wither & loin, sorrel & speed. When they try to tell you
I never happened, believe them. Let the surprise of us be even
better the second time.