This is how a poem means, goddamnit. From Toe Good Poetry In those years of your dying I remember our little green desk lamp, its chain broken so it had to be turned off & on by twisting the bulb in its socket. Sometimes it went off by itself & we’d be engulfed in the dark poverty we were born into. That was how I wanted it to be when your breathing stopped. Quick, painless, silent, poor. That is how I wanted it to be . I wanted to be unable see your face & then I could lie & tell myself I was too old to be afraid of the dark, too old to fear Satan’s python penis splitting the atoms of our soul. It’s been six years since you left. I sit beside myself, brought here to these Midlands of the mundane by the shibboleth of the Chevrolet. In the oncologist’s waiting room there are little green desk lamps just like the one we had, but these do not flicker like my health & the health of all in this room seem...
Like the title says.