Before the wick rejects

the flame; before the glass salts

the waters, or the rental en route

to your funeral stalls, I worry

the dog isn’t getting enough sun,

& it is midnight but we step out

anyway onto summer’s chow

tongue. Clouds extend the glare

of lightning far off. Before phlox

heads drop, the dog sinks

the anthill gathered full & quick

at the ceiba’s trunk. Nothing swarms

his leg or the river he pisses

into the heart like a god, no arthropod

island, no insect bridge of grappled

spurs. Before sunrise, I turn

a burner high in anticipation, olive oil

dollop ready to smother the pan,

when a moth plummets to the blushing

element. Wings immediately

charred. Let me tell you,

more than once in a parked car

I’ve held the searing buckle

to my chest—before drivethrus,

before driveways, drivel down

philtrum; before the beach, crushing

indistinguishable mounds

in bare feet, a horse conch’s crown

tearing skin. Even anaphora

can’t coax the future. You said, Ay mija,

are you crying again? before dusk

revealed the hook in the pelican’s beak.

Work out. Ten laps.
Chin ups. Look good.

Steam room. Dress warm.
Call home. Fresh air.

Eat right. Rest well.
Sweetheart. Safe sex.

Sore throat. Long flu.
Hard nodes. Beware.

Test blood. Count cells.
Reds thin. Whites low.

Dress warm. Eat well.
Short breath. Fatigue.

Night sweats. Dry cough.
Loose stools. Weight loss.

Get mad. Fight back.
Call home. Rest well.

Don’t cry. Take charge.
No sex. Eat right.

Call home. Talk slow.
Chin up. No air.

Arms wide. Nodes hard.
Cough dry. Hold on.

Mouth wide. Drink this.
Breathe in. Breathe out.

No air. Breathe in.
Breathe in. No air.

Black out. White rooms.
Head hot. Feet cold.

No work. Eat right.
CAT scan. Chin up.

Breathe in. Breathe out.
No air. No air.

Thin blood. Sore lungs.
Mouth dry. Mind gone.

Six months? Three weeks?
Can’t eat. No air.

Today? Tonight?
It waits. For me.

Sweet heart. Don’t stop.
Breathe in. Breathe out.