Dear Poetry, the old brag

Dear Poetry,

for Marthe Reed 
      who I found out an hour after writing this poem had left us earlier in the morning 

on the algorithms that run your life
on the screen shots we fed to discern
on the amount of busy work designed to architect what we call surviving
on the edge of this where I can't even meet
on the teeth marks of blame
on the shame you suckle

if I give you my life
if I give you my wanting never filled
if I give you this trap I keep to cage
I think of what hasn't ever happened
& what has happened
& everything in between

I remember this life and this life
pale of this space as if a word,
as if on the pluck of a word
root me, think much of

and it is an old moon, a rusty car, or a spring in the mattress
or it is the bee box, the dead women, the waterfall in a city
hook in the eye of a gone missing, accident of holy holies,
I am the bomb, I am become the shored missive, I am this water too
a lineage of images hoarded into the sprawl
and it is look: I am crawling out under, it is look: I am crawling

to the lip of the wound
where you promise me light
I am flinging in
who needs poetry
I am not afraid to lose you