So she took a lover. (Or did the lover take her?)
So many years have passed between then
and now. It’s hard to sort it out.
The painting in the attic old and oozing.
The two of them are strangers now. She’s
grown a beard in solidarity with a dying dog.
Sandblast wind straight to the eye of god.
No more moisture, neither kind is welcome.
And isn’t the truth overrated anyway?
The universe sucked into its own black hole.
Nothingness and nowhere somewhere
on the other side of somethingness. Let us
give thanks for gravity, despite the bags
and sags and drooping downs. It’s not
the end of the universe after all. Gravity,
in the end, is our salvation. There on the lip
of nowhere, there where Gravity dons leotards,
a jock strap, and cape and saves the day. That is,
saves the universe. Some version of something
returns as we bounce higher, farther than the
reach of energy and matter. Begin again.
There was an old man named Michael
Finnegan. Dead so long ago, but the wake
continues. The infinite return of death.
Lust will resume after this break for station
identification. Only the shadow knows for sure.
The dying daddy wanted to know, what is love,
anyway? And she wonders as she wanders
through time and space if he ever knew the answer
before that last breath or at any time when young.
She wonders when will the widows ever learn, pity
is not love. Aid is not commitment. Lust dies.
The first question being answered,
there is nothing more to say.