By Christmas

By | 1 February 2017

I’d like to be gone by Christmas.
Not due to sadness (nothing
so trivial, even as she waves to me
across time) but because I’m done.
Or because I’ve no more
agenda, nobody left to impress,
nothing to do that somebody
else cannot do, regardless
of what the sitcoms tell me.
Not that life is no longer
hilarious, but such a space
is opening around my tears
and laughter that I’m no longer
certain if I’m myself or the sky.
So bring it on, dear body
(don’t expect me to do the work):
the casual aneurysm,
pneumonia or multiplication
of cells – what difference
does it make when change
is never new? Not even
that I’ve stopped caring –
but if my tea leaves inform me
I’m through, I’d nod at the news.
Hell is other people: oh boo-
bloody-hoo. But more likely
that I’ll awake next year
beside you; I’d wash the toilet,
teach, read or write
a poem about us again too.
Just in case, let me say goodbye
before it’s all over; for in spite
of what anybody says,
I’ll always love you.

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