But Not Me

My body's getting old, but not me.
Each night before I go to sleep
I take out my eyes
blow on them, polish them
with a tissue, set them on a table
by the window where
they can absorb moonlight.
I unsnap my ears
and balance them against each other.
To my eyes, lying beside them,
they look like delicate mollusks
holding oceans of silence,
which I carefully pour out
into a thimble, then sip.
I unpeel my mouth
very slowly to avoid the pain,
folding it in a crescent smile
to lay by my pillow
where I can reach it if I need
to scream, or just to cry.
Because when you cry
it is not the tears that matter
so much as the sound,
the name you try to say
when you are weeping.
I remove most of my fingers,
toes, other body parts,
gently unscrewing them.
They fall so wistfully
on the oriental carpet
which was my grandmother's.
And you are here beside me.
We have our breath,
which cannot be taken
from our spirit.
We have hearts which cannot
be taken from the rhythmic
beating of our souls,
two moths at one candle.
Then what's left, my dear,
my partner, lover, friend?
What's left is the sky at night
full of the stars we are,
and all that does not sleep.



Photo by Carlos Moreira in Sky & Telescope