Love and Death Speaking at Once

Emily Jungmin Yoon
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We come together. 

To love someone means to imagine their death. 

2 a.m. and you lie awake in fear of us. What if?

What if? Call your mother. Say you’re sorry. 

Call your father. What? Call your sister. Memory sustains,

memory fades. Take a picture. Keep a journal. Underline, 

doggy-ear, leave margin-notes in your book, mark it 

with your touch. Do not go into a mountain alone.

Write the letter that embarrasses you: the most adulating,

undulating language, each line a petal in a dahlia. 

Fields of swaying dahlias, you make them.

Yes, you can. Give that person a bouquet of dahlias,

grown, then cut for you; that is us, together. If we make in you 

such tender-hearted anticipation—is it so bad, us together?

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