Grew up on the Jersey Shore in the 1970s. Always making margaritas in the kitchen, always laughing and doing their hair up pretty, sharing lipstick and shoes and new juice diets; always splitting the bills to the last penny, stealing each other’s clothes, loving one another then turning and complaining as soon
Never, never, never, never, never.
Even now I can’t grasp “nothing” or “never.”
They’re unholdable, unglobable, no map to nothing.
Never? Never ever again to see you?
An error, I aver. You’re never nothing,
because nothing’s not a thing.
I know death is absolute, forever,
the guillotine—gutting—never to which we never say goodbye.
But even as I think “forever” it goes “ever”
and “ever” and “ever.” Ever after.
I’m a thing that keeps on thinking. So I never see you
is not a thing or think my mouth can ever. Aver:
You’re not “nothing.” But neither are you something.
Will I ever really get never?
You’re gone. Nothing, never—ever.