May 11, 2010AubadePit Menousek Pinegar

It is a mistake to think, All this
will change, not because it won’t—
not even the cells in our bodies

remain the same; the bulb in the lamp
across the room will burn out,
need to be changed, the switch,

eventually—2,000 5,000 50,000
flicks later—will need replacing,
but because when you say All this

will change, you must subscribe
to loss more quickly, more completely
than necessary. I will not weep

about your going until you pull out
of the drive. I will not lie at dawn,
arm draped across your chest,

leg flung over yours and grieve
the sun. And later, when you are gone
and I empty of you, I will invite

something into the void: an iris
from the garden, an image, still warm,
the willful insistence of a poem.