Surrealistic Forever

Remind me that once upon a time,
I memorized you—your skin, lips,
pulse— were all mine; now ashes
are all that’s left of us.
We were surreal:

Innocence like porcelain,
Hearts of fire.
Silk lips, silk ties on soft skin,
whispers of black and white
in our gilded lives;

Scintillating eyes of lovers rained
sparks into the silence with soft-spoken
caresses and slips of paper wedged
in lockets as we trembled in the darkness
of memory forgotten, erased

from the history books.
We were immortalized as perfect statues,
figurines with wrinkled noses touching softly
as we memorized the breath sounds
and heartbeats that defined us.

Now, we have no definition,
other than silence, simple
fragments, cold skin. Lockets
frozen shut, filled with forgotten
words and deserted love.

So, Darling—

Make me remember
Slow currents and pinpricks
of the fingertips touching softly,
softly burning into our skin,
imprints of our fleeting forever.

Make me remember,
so I can forget, because

Soon, I’ll scatter our ashes,
caught in a crossfire of dust,
surrounded by images of us.
Our crumbling statues will begin to rust;
I’ll rise again. Whole without you.

Fair

I still remember
the way Tyler Durden argued with himself
the first time you kissed me, barrel against cheek,
lips against lips,

the way we lay in the leaves after school,
went home to an empty house,
and left an hour later.

I still smell the cloves off our Blacks,
remember how silent our world was
as you held me under our canopy of leaves,
listening to Fair as I sat on the hood of my car,

and as you loved me while Natalie Portman
tap danced on the TV upstairs
in front of the fireplace.

I still love you, even though
I'm not supposed to remember
or believe, lips against lips
against the barrel of a gun, listening to Fair

as you hold me and love me
under our tree of golden leaves
and gilded memories.

You tell me maybe.
They tell me not to think about you,
but I breathe the smoke off your lips
and love your lies; it’s like they say,

only after disaster can we be resurrected.
And you: you were always
my finest catastrophe.

Valentine

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

-Carol Ann Duffy