Howard Firkin
You’re not alone when you are still alone.
I am. No other drums impatiently,
mitosing in my body cavity.
I’m left here, singularly on my own,
in contrast to the very plural you.
I listen to the sounds that never cease—
self-replicating strings are never still.
The cleaving blankness grows like second will,
preparing for our mutual release,
which it will trigger when it’s ready to.

Meanwhile, you’ll decorate in pastels, comb
through catalogues and play the faithful wife
who picks a name and brings the picked name home.
Leave me alone. Go make your other life.