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THE FINAL VOICEMAILS

1

I was told my proximity

to the toxin would promote

changes to my thinking, speech, and behavior.

My first thought was, of course,

for the child, the little girl,

but graceful, silent figures

in white suits flitted to her

and led her away by the shoulders, like two friends

taking a turtle from a pond.

My second thought was about pain,

the last thing visible

without our manners—

Or could there be an invisible peace

once the peace of the senses departs?

2

I’m glad she’s gone, and not just for her sake:

without her I feel somehow better equipped

to be what I am becoming—

which is, I suppose, preoccupied.

Nobody ever tells you how busy loneliness is—

Every night I cover the windows in soap,

and through the night I dart

soap over any lick of light

that makes its way to my desk

or bed or the floor.

At first it was fear—an understanding that the light

was death, was the toxin,

though really the toxin was invisible,

they said, and came from the water.

But work blesses fear

like a holy man blessing a burlapped sinner,

saying It is for you and Because of you,

and in time the working mind

knows only itself, which is loneliness.

3

Dim sight now,

and each twitch flows

into a deep, old choreography.

Maybe a week ago, my arm banged the faucet,

and I danced

in the middle of the bathroom—

the entire final dance

from the tango class we took

at the gym in New Haven,

with the air as you.

I wasn’t picturing you,

I didn’t smell your damp hair—

don’t imagine that I’m living

in memory.

Whatever I am, it is good at cutting meat.

The trick is: That’s blood.

If you focus your fingers on feeling it,

you cannot mistake yourself for the animal,

who cannot feel; you never cut yourself

if you give your life to the blood you shed.

4

I know you’ve been waiting for disintegration,

but it just doesn’t seem to be coming.

I need to go out to gather some berries.

No more meat: I’ve adopted your diet.

All this time, I thought my shedding

would expose a core,

I thought I would at least know myself,

but these mild passions, all surface, keep erupting now

like acne—or like those berries on a bush.

Don’t ask me to name them—

I’ve never been that kind of guy.

Red berries—sour, sticky.

If you really want to know,

come here, just try them.

Red as earth,

red as a dying berry,

red as your lips,

red as the last thing I saw

and whatever next thing I will see.