Sometimes I think
of how you are hardly
alive,
of how we are all
hardly
alive,
dodging bullets,
dodging raindrops,
skidding on the ice
of Connecticut
winters,
narrowly missing
death
by botulism,
death in its
rattling can,
death by jaw,
death by womb, by cock,
death by
telepathy.
When I think of
your nuclear dreams
& the way you fuck-
head turned sideways
as if you saw
the Last Flash
(& were shielding
your eyes
with me)-
I think
that we are all
marked
beyond repair
by the notion
that even death
can die,
& that our children
will not know
the unutterable joy
of buying
their parents.
I bury you.
You bury me.
Our ages do not
matter-
since I am
life to you,
love, mother,
aunt & anodyne,
poet, playwright,
repairer, sharer
of your most secret
self.
& what are you
to me?
Son & brother
that I never
had-
clandestine Claudius,
hamstrung Hamlet,
mescaline Malvolvio?
What I want
to tell you
is that
I love you.
Impermanent
as we are,
may you
love me.
Erica Jong
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/last-flash/
