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First
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| KATE
EVANS
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| Appeared in the DMQ Review, November 2005. | |
| I have to die first, you say.
When we met we called in sick, ate in bed, let dishes and dust collect. Blossoms confettied out- side. We were like foals, newly testing |
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| our skeletal limbs. I have
to die first, you say, the woman who stopped eating when the dog died, as though feeling your flesh wasn’t yours, or didn’t exist |
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| anymore. So you think I’m
the strong one, the one who can stand being left. Me, the one who, alone in the house, dusts the furniture, the remainders of our long |
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| departed skin. The one who
wipes the ghost of our fingerprints from the mirror, who washes our scent from the sheets, who rinses the spoon that touched the moist- |
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| ness of your tongue. When
we were in bed last night we imagined how we’d go. Our favorite: I’m 100, you’re 104. Our hearts stop, just stop, gently, you said, |
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| in our sleep.
At exactly the same moment. But we know there are likelier fates. I have to die first, you say. And it’s late, it’s late. We’re drifting off, even as you say it. |
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