Dead or Lizzie

 

She sees the manuscript on my desk,

picks it up,
wets her lips 

with the tip of her tongue.

“Clearly a terrible, tragic event. 
Is this some kind of book of the dead? 

Sand? Questions?”

“In,” I hesitate, then blurt it out, “Abstracto.”

“Where is this?”

“Nowhere, in infinity.”

“Seriously?” Lizzie gasps, unbuckling my belt,

“I can turn your night into your life,
I bet your name is Bradley.”


*

The moment comes. 
The situation demands it.


*

Bradley choked.
In death I looked larger than life.

We had to turn our eyes away.

We went back to the starting point,

“Where is this?” and started again, drank
and drank until my motor cortex

talked to the liver.

We systematically varied the survival times.

The conversation had to go on,

dead or Lizzie,
back to sleep,

or forward to the slaying of Bradley.

The red deer crossed a creek. 
It looked back. 

The look: 
disdain.