With love

Poetry

You Are The Last

Yes, do you say that the world has changed?

So it has. Yes, do you carry ceramic plates? Steel wool?

Flouride-free toothpaste? Axes?

 

At six in the morning, I felt so much older 

as you stretched your back and left. 

I miss your flowerpot scar. 

 

Show me your sunburned days,

show me your days eating fresh blackberries.

Don’t leave me out, don’t leave me to drown.

What could I possibly do but lose to dead air?

 

The whole parking lot folds into your bone structure

and you’re listening to only me

as if words are never enough

and this is proof that you felt it too, and you too,

are trying to rescue the loving from fear.

The loving asks us how we like our toast. The loving that tells

us to slow down on yellow. Are you still with me?

What is guiding my hand to tell you not to drive drunk?

The goofy way you think its funny to endanger, to take. 

 

I stay awake as an expectation.

 

In the depth of the motel swimming pool, you might stay.

Last night, I dreamt you did. If only I could develop that dream

in a dark room and nail it on my wall

without feeling it crush me in my sleep.

 

I want another you, then another, and another.

You, in the morning before I brush my teeth. You,

when I forget someone else’s name. 

You, especially when I’m drinking.

 

To you, I am a soldier at his knees. 

To you, I am a hand bloodied at your teeth.

Two loves caught on tape, plastered 

on a cinema screen.

 

If our calls are met with ground,

something about it feels like home.

 

If our wanting keeps us in the dark,

forget why you needed to forget.

Elizabeth Hsieh