Size / / /

I.

I want forty-five years, sixty years, ninety-seven;

I want us to die in some yet unconsidered moment,

when we have an unexpected ceiling cave in on us,

a god make us twenty-two hundred's Baucis and Philemon.

I want again the light on your hair by the river,

gold in the sunset, on your neck, on the river,

and I want your smile, in the glow after sunset,

and I want to have considered every moment.

There will be sometime something I have not thought of.

Over the years, I may have other lovers,

and stay with them until half-light turns well into darkness,

but when I come home, I want you to be with me.

What will I do if, in five years or twenty,

I awaken to find I am trapped in the lands I refuse to consider?

What will I do if forever is over?

II.

Emails Replied To By The Recently Dead

for Skyler

Headers

Dear

To Whom It May Concern

I heard that

the 25th still okay?

Go on and ignore me, I'm only your mother

Dear

I suppose

Chicken Egg Salsa Jane Large Enlarge Bigger

Thinner Thighs Now

Hey?

Are you all right?

LOL you won't believe

Barely Legal

Dear

I heard that

Bodies

. . . I know this is pointless and I'm talking to a void but. . .

. . . she said, anyhow, that. . .

. . . OMG you will not believe this. . .

. . . the restaurant at the corner of 3rd St has good. . .

. . . why are you ignoring me?

. . . I The Widow Miriam Abacha. . .

. . . the cat misses you. . .

. . . I miss you. . .

. . . I bought tickets to. . .

. . . tell me that these rumors are not true. . .

Endings

Call me

See you there

I wish you could answer me

Cable To The Account

expecting you at 9:30

txt me later thnx

sincerely

Sincerely

Yours

I miss you

Damn spammers

Love,

Love,

Love,

Love,

Love

Goodbye.

III.

Highway Driftglass

Bright sunny weekend and talking about nothing and the smell of asphalt

and I do not know if you are over

the first time I see you on the highroad margin.

Whole stories leap behind my eyes when I see you—

and I am sorry for that,

for the cliched narrative,

for the thoughts about the unknowing gratefulness of your afterdays,

for hoping too vaguely and too precisely together.

A dog's bright head to fit the reaching hand,

a friend handmade, as dogs are made by us:

the consequences of the world we planned,

that endless, loving contract, are your dust.

The friend I was with, a woman I loved once,

told me I was lucky not to see you closely,

and I accepted that with the sick grace of freedom.

Indeed I did not want to see you more closely.

Indeed all I wanted from you was the thought of that story,

which had as little to do with you as the color of our car,

which has as much to offer you as the side of the highway.

And you are still there, that summer and after,

and you are still there, although you have scattered,

and you in my unexpected grief for the story half-over,

you in my fear and my anger say this to me:

even the faintest hope of love brings to us

the unforgivable responsibility

to pull in for you. To not go any farther.

And so out of deaths I know yours in particular.




Lila Garrott lives in Cambridge with her wife. Her hair is blue and her eyes are brown. She recently completed a project in which she read and reviewed a book every day for a year. Her poetry has appeared previously in this magazine and others, and her fiction and criticism in wildly scattered venues.
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