The Morning After

Frederick Dolgin

To bend backward for intuition;
Bereave my bones of marrow,
Shift the skin beneath your mirror,
And etch each vertebra in your spine.
And blow a breath of gravity into your heart,
So that it finally deflates,
And parts with its antithesis
The air.
To feel the creases of your palms
When they touch together,
And your fingers clutch,
As your body folds.
To describe the fragrance you like,
And fall face onto dirt, and dig
Those nails in that blood.
To carve the surface of your skin,
And write words atop the mountains
Of regret that breathe within;
I would twist the joints of pain
To fit my fate with your past
And rearrange the fixtures of truth;
But my past is your past

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