By Eva Monhaut
Erosion
I
You said,
we will grow old and sag together
like the old farmhouse
porch with the weeds growing up in between the
cracks, then the maladies will
reveal themselves like tiny fungal morel mushrooms in May
and we can become crooked in
each other’s arms, bent like
ancient trees so that we are
inseparable. We can sit coiled
together on the corroded porch-
swing watching the rabbits leer
at the squirrels
or we could press our spines
into the dull lawn,
like we did on our second date,
stare blurry eyed into the drunk stars
stumbling across the Indiana skyline,
all night,
until we fall asleep
entangled and shivering
in the rotting web of each other’s arms.
Justin,
we could grow old together.
II
I was diagnosed with leukemia.
I found out there is a lump in my
lungs the size of a Concord grape
but you don’t cry; you just take my body
in yours,
press patchouli scented palms against
the rivets of my temple
and
read me poems from your favorites poets:
Kocot, Glück, Plath, Cummings, and Oliver.
Now, a year later, as it expands and intensifies,
you bring me hot chocolate with tiny
marshmallows frantically trying to stay
afloat and shave my beard,
trim away the excess while humming Jeff Buckley ballads
because we both know I am dying,
my rusty, brittle bones are breaking
apart underneath the weight of breathing.
You watch me erode from your reading nook
snuggled next to my hospital bed
and then you you drape mesh
afghans across my crumbling body
to catch the stray pieces
as they fall.
