In the garage are Cadillacs, a golf cart. In the yard: horses. Here it comes: another poem about you, another poem where you are dying, where being with me was a kind of dying for you. So much younger than you, so much you gasped when I turned my body to the dresser, to your wife's picture, when she was my age, when she was younger than my age, and wore a white dress, and her hair was the color of her hair, and her smile said nothing like: I know what's coming. I don't know if I can stop it. It is not the same. I am making it the same. I heard when Lisa Marie at nine found him dead or dying, naked, marble skin in the bathroom, blood leadening, forehead taking on the tub mantle, she got in her golf cart and circled Graceland again and again until the cops came. It was early morning. It is only a story but I think it is true. I think the worst thing I could have done is love you. No- believe you when you said you loved, when you said: baby, baby. Your fingers that traced my collarbone were torn. I think of you there as if you were there, on the bathroom floor, cold growing colder, growing into a museum, a chapel, a conference, a stamp, a black you, a Latino you, a lesbian you, a Jew you. What is it about you that I've made you into Elvis in my poem? I have a heart that insists on you living, that insists on you young and clean and whole with black hair and a pressed shirt, and also you old and fat and drugged out and hoping. And me in the darkness. It is me in the darkness, and I killed you because I didn't call anyone. I loved you; I didn't tell anyone. I got in my cart and drove until you were still, until you were found, until you were gone from my arms, and the arms of this world, the way you had always, already been, the way you have always wanted.
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