In the last days, we press our dirty bodies together
A new kind of prayer—and I am asking you
To be honest with me,
I am asking for truth. I give to you my last cigarette
The knuckles on my left hand
The feeling in my arm that you lie on
When you sleep. Pins and needles spread
To my head and neck.
There is so much we won’t do. I give you instead
The hair on my legs,
The air in my lungs,
My sacrament. In this quiet apartment
When you are not here—
I pencil out my final wishes in keyboard strokes.
We tell each other secrets in the light of the kitchen lamp.
Click here to read Joanna Acevedo on the origin of the poem.
Image: “Intimate” by Adam Heath, licensed under CC 2.0.
Joanna Acevedo is a current MFA Candidate at New York University. Her work has been seen in Track Four, Not Very Quiet, Rigorous Magazine, and others. She is a Hospitalfield 2020 Interdisciplinary Resident and an NYU Goldwater Fellow. She teaches Creative Writing at NYU.
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- The Last Days - December 22, 2020
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