Our Verb is Loved

Kimberly Grey

aller                  to go is to be gone; one day quick as a ship
                         wreck dignified by sea, I realize I am incongruent
                         to the lover that has slept asleep beside me;

arriver              the fact is made with a sewed-up-sutured hinge;
                         the worst part of the dark mothed to him
                         and his leaving; arriving

descender        could be dirty and full of moaning; I prefer
                         the metaphor of going down as to lick the ABC’s
                         over our drawn-out damp drowning;

devenir             we never do, did, become what married means;
                         did not become one thing expressible, did
                         not hold hands at any of our ends; did

entrer               not enter but entirely lost the point of love
                         as an entrance into the other: bags, beds,
                         bods, brushing, blues, believing

monter             in mountains beyond their massive missives
                         and missed the effort of up, took
                         opposite escalators far too often, not never;

mourir               I have

naitre                 have I?

partir                 it is silly to think you could never be left, when leaving
                           is what lovers do; and do like little elevators;
                           leaving squared and sometimes always windowed;

passer                imagine watching him go; a levey and pull
                           at the head; or a boxcar bod, caboose growing
                           smaller smaller; little husband

rentrer                who cannot come back home because there
                            is none; home is not there, and the problem
                            of there is there is none;

rester                  that baffling idea (who created it) that love
                            was a pink peony or a barbarian or a banana
                            in a still frame;

retourner            it is the same;

revenir                 what escapes and stays is his hair
                            sticking to the drain and so you
                            see that hair is one kind of memory       

sortir                   you can firmly hold and release; the lover
                            like a door; can you (you can’t) any more

tomber                nakedly fall through