It's always lust, whether you have some intention
Of making it last or not.
But when has the notion of a lasting passion
Even entered your mind?
And after so many women,
Isn't it obvious there's only one
You've any business doing this with?
Harlot, mother, holy sister--
They all end up with the same words on their lips.
For even as you reach that other shore behind their eyes,
You can feel the questions swimming up after
And darting about your ankles
Like shy but famished fish:
Do you think you can give me that?
And even as you die inside me
Every time you come,
Is what I give you back then
Enough so you won't resent that?
And what of the smiling child
Who plays like a shadow about my mouth
Whenever you take my hand?
In taking my hand, you are making a promise
To the ones I have come from as much as to me,
And it speaks of all that's in store for us
Though most of that you cannot see.
After all, I'm dying too--
But not for a love any less than this."
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