Odysseus

You're grey-eyed and grinning in the doorway,
lips cold and capillary-blue,
and I'm waiting for some signal to move,
pressed between pages, preserved.

Your hand rests upon the light-switch,
but the glow of morning betrays you,
the clumsy flushed fingers of dawn
pushing through layers of winter coat
to expose the deep red tulips
blooming though your shirt.

You're wearing your bullet-hole like a boutonniere, baby,
like you're expecting me to laugh,
like you're hoping I'll take it as a joke.

And in my mind,
I can feel my ribs snapping like wishbones
on so many Thanksgiving turkeys.
My skin's unraveling,
teeth falling out through the hole in my face.
I try to pick them up and collect them in my hands,
and they feel in my palms like little sea shells-
is this what people mean
when they say they're falling apart?

Disintegrating,
until there is nothing left of us,
not even a myth
remembered by blind poets
and prophets,
not even our names.