Summer/Fall 1997 • Vol. XIX No. 3/4 Poetry |

Want

I want the right side of your brain, somebody said, when you are dead, when you donate your organs, leave me that hemisphere—who was that? I ask myself, hoping it was you. But you would never admit such fierce desire, and you would never be so free with my death as that. I rack my poor brains to think who it is that wants them when I'm gone, and find it is a friend, living two hours up the road—my doctor friend, so busy with his left brain, and his left hand, my darling, like our son. I see how unfair the world is to those who love, and for the first time feel how much this man loves me. But what would I want from you when you are gone? Your hands? Your cock? Your tongue and perfect teeth? The dark blood singing through it all; pessimism of the mind, optimism of the will.

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I want the right side of your brain, somebody said, when you are dead, when you donate your organs, leave me that hemisphere—who was that? I ask myself, hoping it […]

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