Poem for Bernard

“It is in the power of every hand to destroy us, and we are beholden unto everyone we meet, he doth not kill us.” —Sir Thomas Browne We’re down here in the basement dodging bombs. As our loves freckle with age we must adore them more ferociously. Come winter you kick back and ready your weapons for spring. My next task was to get well. Five million years ago, there were different terrors. Saber toothed fears. Edgar Allen Poe was terrified of being buried alive. Fear is a civilising influence. It keeps us in line. Fear of bacteria. Of our own murderous kind. Of aliens superior to us in every way who’ll arrive any moment and sensibly decide to clean house. A terrible cry arises from the thick of things. My begging bowl runneth over. Heaven has been relocated and we’re not telling you where. Not even a hint. I don’t love you anymore. What might it mean to die a worthy death and how much should one brood about that ahead of time? I was just trying to get back to the boat alive. Let us lurch forward or hellward. What an adorable form of anarchy when the body outwits us. I am a heretic in their eyes, so they will kill us both and murder your children if they find our hiding place. Despite everything, I awoke full of praise for you, as I do each morning. Coughing constantly, I rinsed my hands and ate some seeded crackers. I thought about your face and prayed.