That is not your poem to write, she says.
And I claim they are all mine to sing, even this.
Maybe I’ll do a fucking series
on his near-death experience. If I love him,
shouldn’t I also suffer the knife?
He is too beautiful to live, she chides.
All the more reason to survive, I say.
Beauty is twice beauty, ten,
when it comes to him.
But the poem, she nags, the poem?
Right. They found a clot.
In his bloodstream.
Endymion was near-
perfect. The gods inserted
a death note.
What gods, she said?
He is not your lover,
or your child.
That hit true.
I am merely his friend.
Maybe that’s what Verlaine said,
at the end.
You need too much time with him, Dante said.
One glimpse of Bea, and I was set, he bragged.
Yeah, yeah, but was she beautiful?
She was okay, he said. Something else
Shot through her. some kind of light.
But what if she’d been beautiful? I asked,
Yesterday’s TED Talk claimed we need beauty to survive.
Then I’d be dead, he said.
I’ve got news for you, I said.
Who’s Ted? he asked.