Love 
(this love) 
has left the room 
feet first— 
a procession 
of embers and ash. 
Illusions. 
Delusions. 
Damnable oxygen thief! 
So goes the stuff 
of paper hearts 
and fiery tongues, 
of promises—hollow—  
past oily lips 
and teeth that bite,
sworn, 
born 
to outlive names 
etched
on gravestones.  
Won’t you kill me, 
softly, 
with one last kiss? 
Blitheful consciousness. 
Walking sleep. 
Ignorant bliss. 
Then 
call the shomer down the street. 
He really knows his Job. 
Rip the collar, 
drape the mirror, 
pawn the wedding silver. 
Take your soul home, 
rockin’ its funerary black, 
and the stone I gave you 
to rub  
between cold fingertips  
on High Holy Days. 



*originally published in San Antonio Review