living it up

 by max ritvo, from four reincarnations

the bed is on fire, and are you laughing?

you leave the bed

and leave me without thought.

the springs want to embrace each other

but they're afraid if they break

their spiral, they will never

be able to hold anyone.

i wish you would let me know

how difficult it is to love me.

then i would know you love me

beneath all that difficulty.

you are tending not only to me, you tell me, 

but to your other child -- the air,

and air puts his feet in my slippers,

and air scrubs his teeth on my brush,

and we must learn to share a bed,

we must learn to share a body.

the money is running out.

we will have to split one needle

this winter -- one end for me,

one end for air.

leisure-loving man suffers untimely death

 by max ritvo, from the final voicemails

 

you ask why the dinner table has been so quiet.

i've felt, for a month, like the table:

 

holding strange things in my head

when there are voices present.

 

and when the voices die,

a cool cloth and some sparkling spray.

 

i'm on painkillers around the clock,

and i fear it's always been

 

just the pain talking to you.

 

the last vision was of the pain leaving ---

it looked just like me as it came out

 

of my mouth, but it was holding a spatula.

it was me if i had learned to cook.

 

the pain drifted to the kitchen.

he hitched himself to the oven, was a centaur

 

completed by bread, great black loaves

bursting from the oven,

 

and then the vision vanished.

i followed, and stood where he had stood.

 

the knives rustled in the block,

the pans clacked overhead.

 

i'm sterile from chemo,

and thought of that.

 

sure, i wish my imagination well,

wherever it is. but now

 

i have sleep to fill. every night

i dream i have a bucket

 

and move clear water from a hole

to a clear ocean. a robot's voice barks,

 

this is sleep. this is sleep.

i'd drink the water, but i'm worried the next 

 

night i'd regret it.

i might need every last drop. nobody will tell me.