we pick out our plots one afternoon

i want so badly to wither away with you
to get sick and slow
we were red and crying five days apart and
i know you don’t want to get old
but my mother says time’s hand blows soft against lovers
one day our bodies will cave in
and i’ll fold myself into you to be big again
our eyes will dull so i’ll stand nearer
will spend our quiet hours learning the composition of moles that map your cheeks
i’ll play it on the piano
record a tape and call it sunlight
so when our sight leaves i can hear your beauty out loud until
our ears are satisfied with the songs of this lifetime, shutting off
to let our earthquake hands speak freely in their mother tongue
to whisper and vow against our frail, greying shapes
planning out the next time, where and how they’ll meet again
what signs they’ll leave behind so we know where to go
which left to take on the way home, what colour sheets to hang to dry
and in between the directions,
our palms will sing love songs that line our foreheads with continuum
chanting against our skin to the beat of
good, now again.

About the Author
Ani Bachan is a Toronto-based writer who’s had work previously published in Inlandia’s online literary journal and the clementine zine.