a poem, inspired by Ian McEwan

make something and die, ian says.

we breathe, feel, make things and die.

we breathe, feel, break things and die.

i don’t mind it at all.

for if we kept on going,

circling the trails of time till our limbs wither,

eulogies etched into the membrane of our throats,

tendons, cartilage, and bone splitting away from our spine like banana peels —

then there’d be no joy in doing anything at all.

it’s the finality of things,

the blinks of liminal reckoning that roil through our bodies,

that turns brief moments

like drinking a cheap glass of merlot

while sinking into a trance with sister nancy,

or the brush of fresh linen against naked skin,

feel as memorable as

first kisses,

kismet on the Yamanote line,

the first drop of menses at 16 years old,

or traveling through a new country with an old lover.

i don’t mind 

that this is all bound to end —

the complex comedies and tragedies,

neutrinos and atoms tunneling through the earth,

dancing endlessly to its dismemberment —

if that is what keeps these words alive.

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