dying is not enough
we’d see each other more
some day
after it was all over
after the last drops had been absorbed
by the veins that functioned as our mouths
after the quilts were removed
and the windows were opened
so that the parts of us left in that room
could be free
some day we’d look at the fence
in the neglected yard
and wonder why the plastic bags
caught in its links
held more air than we ever did