Fatalities

The second time I died was a collision—

Head on, no escape, as on a bridge—

An undesirable fate foreseeable

Which I approached, full steam ahead,

Despite my 20/20 vision.

She was the chocolate to my hound’s yap.

She was the low-budget horror flick.

The flame to my moth.

The pornographic image.

If you saw Independence Day, she was the giant, city-sized explosion, and I was the chubby guy in the car saying, “Oh crap.”

Fatalities are personal; they happen inside—

For the lucky: every few years,

For the stupid: much more frequently—

As a small piece of the soul shrivels

Or scars or warps or, amputated, altogether subsides.

Maybe she’d pick me over that other guy;

I was hoping in spite of myself, hoping,

Longing, deep beneath my innards,

But when I leaned in, and she turned her face out—

That was the second time I died.

Or maybe it was the fifth?

Or the twelfth—

I can’t be sure,

But I do remember the first.

It was much less poetic.