Bring in your dead,
she said.
So I dragged my lovers
out of the warm cocoons of my sheets
out through my crooked legs and my sweat-soaked arms
and watched as they clutched not at the bed, but
at their trousers, their watches, their wallets
such tangible treasures that they worship instead.
I walked down 17th street,
my body a mirror for the heat of the sun
the bodies were heavy (including my own)
and every single step, another lover said to me
don't let go; you're not ready.
He, of course, was right.
I waited until their protests
became my history, my poetry
under the cover of night.