I read once about a drunk driver who killed his own wife and children
while speeding down a highway late at night
but didn’t figure out who the victims were
until he was asked to identify their bodies at the morgue.
I’ve taken an inventory of all the things I wish I could change
about myself, and I’ve come to the conclusion
that the only way to rid myself of this constant weight,
weight like the stones in Virginia Woolf’s pockets,
is to hop in a time machine and somehow
slip cyanide into my grandfather’s wine.
But I love my grandfather too much to want to kill him;
I simply need a way to eradicate my own existence.
When we go out for dinner you have to hold me back
from the all the serving knives; so many times you’ve
hidden them in your napkin, under your lap.
I kick your legs under the table. You trace my mouth
with your thumb. We kiss so hard our backs crack,
but I still can’t get you to show me where they’re hidden,
fumbling over one another like a driver searching for the steering wheel,
like the last few seconds before the dashboard explodes.
If I don’t give these to you, will you still want me? you ask.
Every time, I say.