everything starts with a rape.
figuratively, of course.
i think that's how all really originates
and ends.
i think my associations
with every person i've ever known closely
have never quite commenced
without the thought
of being overtaken
in an argument, say,
or a race
of some kind of fluttering foot.

and as i begin to tell her
about my dream last night
--the one wherein he poured
the pot of boiling tea over my hands
until they steamed
(nevermind that i couldn't feel a thing
and instantly forgave him)--
as i begin to powder her with images
of the full black skirt she spun in
and the multi-coloured blocks
that she felt compelled to move about the sterile-lit room,
i realise, slowly,
that i cannot make known to her
the way the dream ends;
with her glossy lips hitching, and parting
and mildly resisting.

the ones that talk of death most often
are usually the ones
most afraid to face it.
i'm going to live to be one hundred, at least.
and so i see her--
me, i mean--
laying in my disinfected bed with the plastic sheets
in the convalescent home,
arms full of photographs,
bedside table bearing the weight
of wilted, week-old flowers, and stacks of books.
probably still foolish enough
to spend my last moments thinking:
so this is what it feels like
to be raped by father time.
and following that thought, i'll add the question
of whether this is incest or not.
knowing my luck
the answer will come directly after
the final exhalation of breath.