1 Corinthians 13:13
What is the correct answer
to a hopeless confession
of love? I say: Thank you,
Goodbye. The truth is, I’ve lost faith
in the tip of my tongue to perform either act.
I say nothing. I say: It’s all an act,
and the greatest of these is
held hostage by the right hand
of a gospel verse, a bible belt
unbuckled and a bone abashedly beaten
behind the oblivion of organic lust.
why I never last:
Driving home through the night from the Outer Banks
my heart stopped on the interstate shoulder,
after so many wrong turns, over-
dosed, arrhythmic, rushed
to a rural Ohio hospital by siren sins
to piss out the amphetamines
with the burning thrills of my last love,
the mountain thrusts of our bodies
just that: Infectious, unholy,
ridden with it. On discharge, I pulled out
the nasal cannula, the intravenous drip still
dripping as if preaching the perils
of stimulants for a weak heart
full of water and thicker fluids. What remains
in the silence that comes
after admission? I say: That took too long.
I say: Love,
a euphemism for the end, hardened.