by Jaime Faulkner

A Poor Idea of Pillow Talk

I ask him what I should do with his body
should he become a vegetable, brain dead, hooked
up to clicking machines my imagination fleshes
out too quickly. He exhales and laughs a little, Jesus, Jaime,
but I insist—should I let them take his skin,
his spleen and eyes? Even in hypotheticals I don’t want
to confront that ambulance abundance, the death by falling grand piano
or some other such freak accident that takes him from me too soon
and I have to steady my voice when I ask
Do you, someday, want me to take extraordinary measures?
And he looks at me and says no, no of course not.
I know death doesn’t scare us in the same way—
he sleeps more soundly than I do, and when
we talk of Heaven, the one he doesn’t believe in, I only
half tease when I say What, you don’t want to
see me again when all this is over?
And he looks at me and pulls me to him and
says I want
to see you right now.

—–

Jaime Faulkner is a poet and performance artist residing in Tempe, Arizona. She recently won 1st place in Poetry in the League of Innovation National Student Literary Competition (2016-2017) and her work has been published by Four Chambers Press, Passages, and others.

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