All Tomorrows

half carcass bleeding out at the slaughterhouse the wound too wide to stop the haemorrhage

during the last week of your life you said (and kept us hoping): when I get out of here I want to swim in a large calm pool of warm water. get my swimming suit ready we made plans

arguably, Santini makes the best ice cream in Portugal. on Friday, the 10 th of February 2012, I went to Lisbon to register at last the copyright for the album I wrote and made for you, Inês. on my way to Rossio station, I decided I’d buy you your favourite ice cream: Santini’s honeydew melon. I bought a half-litre styrofoam box, which would keep the ice cream for an hour. I caught a taxi and instructed the driver to rush to the hospital, for I didn’t know how much longer you’d be alive. the driver understood, and screeched and honked us across Lisbon traffic, and then like a mad bullet down the motorway. in under 20 minutes, he got me to the hospital, where I ran down the endless, freezing hallway towards your ward, your bed no. 12. and found you asleep. alive. the bed not nightmarishly empty. I awoke you with a dash of honeydew melon, and you sucked on it, breathed it in, a sunbeam in your fading mind. my tears blended in with the flavour. there was so little of you then. you nev...

        (the light shone on me         between the preserved foods section         and the fresh fish counter.         bling. nonetheless real.                       bling.)    through all the pain and all the sorrow    through knowing that I’ll have to live              w i t h o u t   y o u    for a score of years,    I see this now:   the time is here   to master my tomorrows   to become my masterpiece   to determine my freedom. when tonight's night falls I shall look up at                    ...

without you. two words that hurt me to the bone

you were my country you were my religion now you're in the grave where I shall lie too and one day our atoms will recombine into a new possibility