Mutual Testament
You are my hand going down
Your pants. You are my hand
Rummaging through your blouse
And over your, well, you-knows.
I have my hand in your pants,
But it’s your fault, because it
Is you. It is you, my hand in
Your jeans, in your underwear.
I am your hand touching my
Hand when I light your cigarette.
I am your voice saying let’s do it.
You are my hand in your pants.
You are dead and I am dead
With you in the next grave over.
The kids have your skin and my
Tendency to give amazing advice.
They are not dead yet, but they
Will be. They will be dead, love.
You are the porch-light coming
Back on just as I am to the corner
Leaving, smoking. You are the cave
Inside a kiss, the vacuum between
My lungs and the cigarette. You
Are my hand, down in your pants.
If you need you, you will be in
Your pants in the next grave over.
I will be your voice saying why don’t
You go ahead and say you love me.
This poem originally appeared in Ninth Letter, Vol. 5, No. 1, Spring/Summer 2008 as “Heart River Dirge” and has been reprinted with permission of the author.
