Does he ever visit the

spectres of our past selves,

who sit eye to eye

on his rent couch,

furiously swallowing

the prosecco we said

we’d save for a new year?

Sometimes, in the middle of

the day, I drop my spoon, go

alone to the museum to

see our dramatic tableau,

eternal as an urn.

Every time, there I am,

eyes glossy as the tulip glass

in my hand, saying:

I have never been hit by a car

that I could not see coming.

                                 (And him, a cedar

                                 tree, replying:)

                                 It was a streetcar.

                                 It missed me.

(And me, repetitive and petulant:)

I have never cancelled plans

because I was hungover.

                                 (And him, unmoved:)

                                 Never.

(And me, leaf-fringed and haunted:)

I have never forgotten that I

cancelled plans because I was

hungover.

                                 (And him, marble

                                 philosopher:)

                                 How can I

                                 answer that.

(We are fully in it now:)

I have never forgotten that I only

cancelled plans on a Saturday afternoon

after my sweetheart called to ask me

where I was. Then I absconded again,

left it to them to make my excuses to

their friend whom I was supposed to meet.

                                 Human error is more endemic

                                 than alcoholic.

I have never left my sweetheart waiting

for an hour—

                                 You take a drink.

—waiting for an hour, alone among

thousands crowded into an amphitheatre,

trying not to dissolve into rosewater as

timbrels ring and the chorus intones

it hurts to love you, not knowing if I will

actually show up but certain that they

are the oldest they have ever been.

                                 I arrived though, didn’t I,

                                 only to find you wearing

                                 jewelled bruises on your

                                 neck in the shape of

                                 someone else’s teeth.

(Now we come to my dry-tongued

fever, my inarticulate delirium:)

I have never been too drunk

to fuck when I wanted to.

                                 (He is still as chilled as our

                                 bottle of sparkling white:)

                                 Every lover is a liar with

                                 a righteous cause.

I have never been told that

I have a drinking problem.

                                 I drink;

                                 you have the problem.

(Our cups are nearly

light as air. It is time for

our final play:)

I have never wanted to

rinse my salt-crusted skin

in a grotto where the

water is flecked with

sugar cane and ginger.

                                 Do you know why it’s

                                 called getting clean?

                                 Because it’s like bathing;

                                 you have to do it every day.

This is my exit.

I walk out of the museum,

and I am back in my kitchen,

wrist-deep in dish soap,

washing myself

of him again.

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