In the beginning

(Which is to say, after the end)

I try not to say it;

I try to keep the words closer than skin,

Covered up like stretch marks and cellulite

And other ugly markers of age and gender and sex.

After the end, or in the beginning,

I focus on how full I feel,

Stockpiled and shored up against the coming freeze

When I cannot feel the heat of you

Or taste the salt of your body.

I focus on progress, on continued happiness,

On the machinations of daily movements so that 

I will just keep plodding, easily, into the future

And towards the end, or the next beginning. 

Am I home? Am I lost? I am 

Perpetually unsure, drunk on location, dazed

By the multiplicity of homelessness.

So at this end of time, looking forward into

My next ending, I think only of the closeness

Of the memories, the immediacy with which I can

Call you to mind, your mouth, your words, your eyes.

I think of these and call you home

And wait for my next beginning.