. . . and the incapacity to live with anyone.
- Nina Zivancevic
The apostrophe of your face resurfaces
in the foreign category on Netflix
your name missing from the credits
your plans awaiting the ferryman’s text
which appears with the tide.
Too late to tiptoe through the peephole of the capsized vessel.
Too late to re-enter the hall of two-way mirrors
where we cameoed in each other’s fantasy
bookended by bodice rippers
every shape size and persuasion
sandwich boards brandishing positions
straight out of the Kama Sutra.
A missionary! A missionary! -
your voice not unlike a carousel of loosely-fitted conjunctions
its slowly-unfolding symmetry
mimicking the Golden Age of Silent Films
echoed in painful evenings
the river gurgling a perfect fifth to our wailing.
Is this how it ends?
