Fait Accompli

 

I’ve written my last words for you.
I scribbled them in pen, willing them permanent,
creating them, carving them out of memories
that are, at best, half mine.

I put them in the freezer, next to someone else’s plums,
behind the peas, on the shelf above
the In Case of Emergency Chocolate.
I wanted to preserve them.
I wanted to be rid of them.
I wanted to bury it all, unless
I changed my mind. It seemed, then,
an elegant solution.

Next, I changed the sheets. I drank
the vodka that was nearly too cold
to swallow; I plucked out all the odd reminders
of not-love, half-love – that plaything
you called your heart. You never used it properly.
I don’t suppose you could even feel the difference.

Who loses, now, then? At this final hour.
When the world’s in flames, and I’m holding
not just a match, but gasoline – combustion
threatening to spark my smile. Do I dare?
Always, darling. You know that.
But I won’t uncover this again. Some things
aren’t worthy of a Viking funeral. Between fire
and ice, I too often choose fire, a lit litany
of remembrance – but, no more. Ice, ice it is
by default, by de facto committee,
our many different sides fanning out, coming
to colors: accomplice,
the whisper promises, a hiss of revelation
whenever the door is opened,
the icebox offers things
that I’m trying to forget about.

But I’ve written my last words for you.
Again and again and again and again.
Each one freezes with the next,
but the fire, the fire’s always still coming.