but you hate it when I wake you up to fight
I am thinking about you in our last days:
how you clung to our domesticity,
our lady of forgetting to put the toilet seat down,
and burned out our last shouting matches
on small drugs and washtub liquor.
how I read your lips across the hotel bar
as you left silent sainted lipstick stains
on the rims of strangers’ glasses.
how you fancied yourself of a different age
but didn’t act it, fed like a pettish,
dripping child, choking loudly
on anything too bitter, or wrong.
how you asked me if I hated you,
and how I didn’t have an answer -
- just like at the very end of the world,
beside your ghastly, wingless back,
I am laying lock-jawed, crippled and sick
with the depth of my inaction.
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