was a storm
I was born
but I inherited
You think that their
dying is the worst
thing that could happen.
Then they stay dead.
Woman Ironing (La repasseuse), 1904, Pablo Picasso
Babylon, 1906, František Kupka
If there was one thing I could save from the fire,
he said, the broken arms of the sycamore,
the eucalyptus still trying to climb out of the yard—
your breath on my neck like a music that holds
my hands down, kisses as they burn their way
along my spine—or rain, our bodies wet,
clothes clinging arm to elbow, clothes clinging
nipple to groin—I’ll be right here. I’m waiting.