CPR no.26

What We Have Lost

Kimberly Grey

We left them in little silver factories, our breathings, and continued on
as things unliving and for a short while, as trees.
            And when we gathered
on the church steps we knew we'd be human again, as confirmed by our
drinkings, but missed the wrapped leaves and so swerved
            towards the bathtub
and were, for a day, droplings of bath water and tiny blond hairs.  Imagine
it harder, our hybrid selves: both dirty and divine.  Everything is
            a question of
belief: we began as bone bits and once we tired, we began again
as a two-lover herd.  That time I was a real woman I yearned for your square
           back of wanting, your yellowsun gut.
We are a thousand different shapes before we are the shapes we die in.  If there
is a map for grief, it has already lost its world.  Soon it will be a shower curtain
            or blueprint.  Soon we'll be burning
it for warmth.  I could love you more easily as a pale bird, circling you with air.
I would love you a lot more if you weren't so alive.  We will always need
            things to teach us leaving;
there are a million kinds of loss.  Each one has to do with breathing
            and not breathing.

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