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Sport 36: Winter 2008

Letter

page 168

Letter

Love, we have finished.
Eaten one another's bones,
consumed the kidneys, the liver, the spleen.
We have picked our teeth
and dusted our hands.

Yes, all the books agree,
the history is concluded:
the nights we lay too dumb to speak,
the flutter of hands between wake and sleep,
the shouts and demonstrations,
the tanks rolling down the street.

You have removed the hair from the tub.
I have disposed of your razor and comb.
The shoes have been thoroughly scrubbed.
The names are gone from the phone.

(So if at night
the pillow assumes the shape
of your back
and the tomcat sounds like your
cry—
I will think of this as
a ghost
a residue
my own private matter.)