The End of Love

 We know the date so we begin to prepare

for the end of love.

We salt the remaining earth.

The flowers are trimmed,

the berries plucked

against the birds’ first

pre-emptive strike of harvest.

We note the birds have left

these bushes and shown mostly disinterest,

and conclude it’s because they’re not indigenous-

the birds wouldn’t have known what to do with them-

and yet, despite the foreign climate,

you agree that the plants have done quite well.

We know some things now so we decide

it would be better to forget.

Money is moved from one account to another,

the outer walls need replastering,

the leaves to be swept,

most of the windowsills with the houseplants have been

damaged by water

but there’ll be a man in along later to help

so, ask him to also take a look at the drains and

the shower heads as well,

as some of them seem to be clogged and

smoking a hot, muddy smell.

I dig up the things I had buried in the yard,

and try to remember where

and how many there were.

You visit me at midnight counting and

covered in dirt,

and ask just exactly what those things are.

I say they were protective

spells meant to keep us safe,

buried all over the garden in little jars.

You say “ah”.

The morning washes over, furiously,

says ‘nothing has ended for me’,

and I am pinned down by light

in my sleep

at about six in the morning

with sun coming in

through blinds

through curtains

through bricks,

and sunshine tearing its way gaily through

every skin that I am in.

And I feel it will be some time before

I can think to open my eyes

against that shockingly fearsome sting

of seeing light for the first time since

the night had flicked off its satin glove,

and knew that was the end of love.