The First of Nine

To Roberto: On Being Unable To Sleep

When I dream about you I dream
apocalyptic skies and sunstroke,
the backseat of a dusty car,
wildfire in the desert,
sexual violence.

I dream of your liver
in Mexico City.

A telephone ringing in an empty hotel room;
a knife placed on a countertop
appears as indecent and dangerous
as a knife held in a hand.

Now that you’re gone,
would you write it all the same?

I dream of your liver
in an autopsy pan.

Coordinates on a map, cities
and airports,
vacant
beds, and your hair
tucked behind your sallow ear.

Is death the abandonment
you imagined?

I dream of your liver
prayed over and buried.

The end of the world
begins inside
each and every one
of our torsos.
The panicked heartbeat,
the seizing abdomen.

We have given over,
things have gotten worse,
and I dream of your liver
like a prophet,
covered in sand.