The Ending

I never said that we weren’t guilty
of the same crimes: using our lives
as material for poetry. Fuck the film,
fuck fiction, this stuff is snuff through
and through. Sometimes, I can’t believe
we really sat in your living room with

                                                                      your mother standing by the stairs and
                                                                      ceramic angels looking over our shoulders
                                                                      while we were overwhelmed with feeling
                                                                      but there you go: the script stages itself

    	 all the time but we take credit for the 
  	 performance. Are there any two people
  	 better at hiding behind the shape of 
  	 a line? Especially one that begins with I, 

                                                                      I wanted to be there: in another country
                                                                   poring over books and worrying over citations
                                                                beside you in a dark room that didn’t belong
                                                             to any of our ancestors but felt like our birthright

in the same way we make believe poetry
         				                    found us and we found each other.