There is a quiet terror in knowing
the future. I've always been told:
keep your eyes on the prize
but this seems counterintuitive to
winning it. It is the way I can
relish part of a poem, laud it like
a teenage girl in love, and have
missed they way it all falls apart.
It is the way I drink liquor like
drunkenness is forever trying to escape me
carrying in its arm some warm truth
that smells of vomit, only to wake up the
next day, my body thumping and melted from
proximity to the sun--and yet I still cannot
recall what it was like, if I was ever there.
I have never known the truth that
comes wrapped in a moment and
expires thereafter, I cannot believe in
books because they all have back covers,
and I have never seen your face not running
wet with hot tears that bear my name,
your lower lip trembling to the tempo
of our common sorrow. As I look at you now,
working my eyes over you like a shepherd, it
is already too late; we are all prey to the
ravenous future. I cannot see that smile
anymore, and all of our lovely speech
comes out in that low gurgle of realization,
saying "Is it really over?"
All I've ever heard you say is
"Is it really over?"
and nothing I say sounds like anything
but a "Yes."