Retrospective

My friend said, between hits of his weed pen, that
          the problem with having lived
so many lives is that I don’t know if I already
          went through the best one.

In the silence that follows, I use whatever’s handy (construction
          paper? Elmers’s glue?) to make
a falcon. I let it cut against the bronze after-birth
          of dusk outside my window. Let it distract the dark.

Poets these days, all we do is summon birds
          when we no longer have
the proper tools to describe that whistling
          kettle of ache

inside us (oh, is a kettle more interesting? Better yet, a kestrel).
          There I go again. If I were stronger,
I would clip longing’s wings; it would never take to the sky
          so easily. I would know how to say

there will be more love where that came from. If I weren’t
          so reckless, I’d stop recalling the way
your legs felt draped over
          my shoulders, tendon and black hair

pressed against my neck. How many versions of this pleasure
          play-out for me? The sky, marbled into
mirror, mimicking the floodplain we spend all night
          prospecting, hands deep in the silt.
 
My friend lays back on the take-out stained
          sofa, his mouth open, exhaling
candied smoke when what I need is an answer to
          the question: what if this is it?

A hawk descends; don’t they always? This time, I concede
          to the tired device, my lungs filling
with pleasure until everything blurs into
          a glossy retrospective. I don’t know

if this is the best life. My friend falls into
          sleep, his body’s soft edges
pushing against my own. If there are no more left to go,
          I suppose we did our best.