There is a body on the bed.
I’m not going to tell you
who it is because it’s not there.
Everyone has had a turn being
the body on the bed. The problem
here is a lack of blood. Prick this
to the wall, not a trickle. Coming
soon enough and without warning
is the moment of death when meat
grips bone, not wanting to go slack,
and the last air leaves, borrowed
wind that flares nostrils, fills the twin
bellows of the lungs, sighs wide
into the accordion of the ribs. The sad
balloon of the diaphragm. All gone.
Only a clean, granular ash remains.
Death won’t erase my love of travel.
In a room the size of an envelope,
we touch only when you speak,
tongue tapping palette. I’ll miss hands
the most, and the fickle nature
of temperatures. No body. No bed.
