For my Bunny, 2/28/1960 to 2/27/1995
I measure everything by the distance from the last time we fucked until now,
The last time we fucked was after some party,
I was there alone, or at least not with you.
The room was full of feminists listening to Holly Near and talking earnestly about Reagan,
So I got drunk on vodka and missed you.
You would never have been invited,
And if you somehow were at that party,
You would have told them that they were fucking classist bitches,
Just like that.
Then you would have swept me out of there,
Getting us both banned for a while,
Or at least until they wanted to score some ‘ludes or some “strange”,
Which is what the straight boys called it and that is what you were.
I drank until I had to beg them to take me to your apartment,
Me all blurred and needy and crying for you,
You were crashing at some vet’s in a cheap duplex in the South end,
You let me in and we stumbled onto the blue polyester sleeping bag.
It was on the living room floor spread out in front of the big television,
Picture on and sound off.
I promised to take you away to New York city,
Where we could be free,
And I left you in the morning.
Five years later you overdosed on the bathroom floor of a fast food restaurant,
And I wailed walking in circles, in circles for the loss of you,
You lying on the cool, greasy tile floor dying,
And me sober living in a farmhouse.
Fuck this, fuck it all.
I want to redo our last fuck and make it magic,
Spread out the sleeping bag in the starry night and lay like clouds or colts,
In the moonlight all blue and sweet.
We were magic sometimes, we were.