Call what we had an oil spill. Call what we
had dirty laundry. Call how I pulled your face
from the concrete that evening when you wanted
a vehicle to tear open your body like Thanksgiving
dinner, manipulation. Call my name now and you
will not hear an exaltation, but a eulogy of every
negative aspect you can relate to a relationship.
Call your anger venting when we both know it
is you accepting the destruction of your own being.
Call what you and your new girl have pure spring water.
Call what you feel for her awakening. Call it revelation.
Call it enlightenment. Call what we shared poisonous;
ivy crossed with stinging nettle crossed with
nightshade. Call this disastrous persona you
carry something holy. Call yourself beginning anew,
and ending later. Call yourself magic; all starlight and
coal turned diamond. Call our ending the meteor that
avoided colliding with your planetary body. Call my
name a singe against your skin. Call your absence
blessing. Call this end retribution. Call her name
poetry incarnate. Call my aura an alarm you never
learned how to switch off after my leaving. Call this final.
Don’t call me.
