Ian Williams

                                            Were we twins earlier

we might have saved the other from learning to speak,

to speak dead, to speak dead romance, to speak dead romance

languages. Utter embouchure. The aftertaste of hurt knots the tongue,

an unripe persimmon. An echo tumbles from the mountain range

of a French horn, hunt long finished, rabbits interrupted

by bullets. Then skinned. Then opened wide. There is no translation

for rescue save breath. How we speak to and only to each other.

By the routine of lung. After years of half-formed, airtight Hebrew

the lonely heart’s grammar relaxes, allows one vowel. U.

You. At the Tire and Lube Express. You said lube

and I – did you notice? – revved. Your name tag

was missing so I read your hair, curled like a string of e’s,

your forearms drizzled with soft hairs like a boy’s

first moustache. Apart from that, you were built

like a walrus. The kind of man that drives a Ford

pickup. Black or silver. You said, ‘There might be a gas leak

and We can’t fix that here, but don’t worry, we’ll get you fixed.

By fixed you meant hooked up, by hooked up you meant

in touch with and meant nothing beyond touch.

Me. Volvo. Smelled like gasoline: I overfilled the tank

before the oil change. I took the package that comes

with a filter replacement. Have you already forgotten me?

I had trouble with the debit machine. Remember? You said,

Turn your card the other way – remember? – and took my hand,

not the card, took my hand with the card in it

and swiped it through. Remember. Please.

The gasoline. The woman almost on fire.

Name. Permanent address. Mailing address (if different).

Will you want me when I ask you to vacuum the stairs

with the hose attachment? Daytime telephone number.

when we are eating cabbage for the third straight night?

Evening. Cell. Email. when you hear my footsteps

descend the basement stairs during the Leafs game?

Date of birth. Sex. Marital status. Will you want me

when birds walk across my face? Employment

in the last two years. and I give up mowing

my legs? From. To. give up dusting my cheeks?

From. To. give up Restylane?

                                                          Emergency

contact information. when I sit on the toilet seat

of the ensuite weeping? Name. over a clot of blood?

Relationship. over nothing? Telephone. Would you if I migrate

Type of card. Name on card. Card number. if I start calling

you Mr. Shopkeeper? Date of expiry. if I keep asking you if

you’ll be getting any milk soon for the baby?

(Optional) Choose a security question. Would you want me

if I lose a limb? Mother’s maiden name. if I lose a breast?

Year of father’s birth. Will you want me when

I declare the above statements are true. I lose half of me?

Signature. Date. and half of you?