III.

Whisper, fister. Call out the cold from the body. Call up

The silence from the bones, unclench that final personal pronoun.

Where were you last night? I didn’t hear you come in…

I must have been dreaming of Portugal again, those breezy days

Of late May near the crooked shore where you lay naked

Beneath the shifting, scraping wheel of the sun—but I didn’t mind

Bringing you the colorful drinks chattering with ice; I didn’t mind licking

The sand off the insides of your thighs until the fat hourglass

Grew clean; I didn’t mind the silver nipple clips

I found in your dresser drawer; I didn’t mind the soft constellations

Of melanoma in your misty future; & please

Understand I never mind your extravagant indifference to everything

I try to say. After all, it’s over when it’s over, right? When it’s over,

It’s already been over, everybody knows, long before it’s finally over. So,

I don’t mind any of it, really; I don’t even mind your silence,

Your well-honed inevitable & impersonal pronoun silence

Of departure, nor all of that listening I’ve wasted, wasted, wasted, wasted.

I don’t mind any of it, not even those years I’ve wasted like silence, love;

Wasted, wasted, wasted. Over, not over. You.