supine on your kitchen table,
pennies warming against the lids
of my eyes, because St. Paul says
we die every moment, so we can
disarm death by rehearsing it.
I am trying to act out my end,
a perfect tragedy, exhausting
the passions of terror and pity,
because events which themselves
we view with pain, we delight to contemplate
when reproduced with minute fidelity.
I am hoping you’ll say something
about how you’ll miss me. Eternally.
Instead, you sit down with a bowl of Cheerios
and tell me tragedy confines itself
to a single revolution of the sun. Then I’m back
to where I started from: adlibbing. Afraid.