Right Now

On loving past the point of identity.

I think of you,
I reek of you,
I dream of you.

I breathe off you,
I live off you,
I drink off you.

I starve on you,
I feed on you,
I feast on you.

Not someday.
Not tomorrow.
Right now.

I know we agreed not to have more babies,
but I still need to pump you full of me.

Until you can’t walk straight,
sneeze my lust,
wither in my decay,
can’t cough me out.

Until you can’t even cry,
because it’s hard to weep
when there’s no more grief —
all that’s inside you is my wrath.

I need you,
I dig you,
I give you.

I tease you,
I grieve you,
I please you.

Mutilate you,
macerate you,
then eat you.

Not someday.
Not tomorrow.
Right now.

My derelict guardian angel,
a saving path to where damnation lies.
My gentle devil.
My sinful saint.

And if you ever leave me,
I will drown on the dry land.
In the middle of the night I’ll howl,
like a wounded wolf in a hunter’s trap,
like a widow who lost her only child.

Not someday.
Not tomorrow.
Please, at least not right now.

Because I won’t be myself ever again.
There’s no longer I after us.

Zdzisław Beksiński, Untitled painting, 1990