for Barry Spacks
the last poem he wrote
to me was in pen, about tears—
indelible metaphor
*
his words like bathtub
rings on my mind, nothing
will rub them out
*
meanwhile, our flesh
is written in lead and is already
nearly erased
*
sometimes I would
curl inside his words and make
a home there
*
into my breath
he tattooed
kindness
*
sometimes his words
would curl inside me
and then explode
*
not any of these words
the right words
oh sad alphabet