Yesterdays

It isn’t enough:
the cemeteries, the stones
in which the beloveds
are scratched into memory; and even where
there is water beneath the earth are
the mausolea,
the pitched-roof tombs, not enough.
Give us more,
we say: the living, who desire.
I remember
when we ate of each other our sticky flesh,
as if we were two
men who could do that, two
little Christs.
Here’s my body,
you said. Do this, in remembrance of me.
Here’s my heart, I said. Just
do it.