We’re talking about



when we met



and you say







it was easier



to fall for me thinking



(I’ll remember







this pause)



it was likely I’d be



dead by now.







Talking. Falling.



Thinking. Waiting . . .



Have I







undone



what you’ve tried to do?



You say no.







You say the surprise



of still being



is something







being built—



the machine of our living,



this saltwork of luck,







stylish, safe,



comfortable and



unintended.







Meanwhile, I haven’t



had the opportunity



to tell you, but







our lovely little dog



has just killed



a possum.







Maybe it’s unfair,



a possum entering



the argument here.







But I lay it down



before us:



because an ugly







dying possum



played dead



and didn’t run,







its dubious cunning



was brought to an end



outside our door







by our brutal, beautiful



and very pleased



little dog.







So how do I say



that this is not



about death or sadness







or even whether



you really



first loved me







waiting, thinking



I’d be



dying young?







It’s just that



standing there



a few minutes ago







holding a dead possum



by its repellent



bony tail,







I was struck by how



eerily pleased I was



to be a spectator







to teeth, spit,



agony and claw,



feeling full of purpose,







thinking how different



in our adversaries



we are from possums.







We try love—



the fist of words,



their opening hand.







And whether we play



dead or alive,



our pain, the slow







circulation of happiness,



our salt and work,



the stubborn questions







we endlessly



give names to



haunt us with choice.





