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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 11

The Final Days

Love dying ever faster
in those days,
we pretend
not to notice this erasure
of last resort.
I don’t know why I expect
applause from anyone
when I finally resolve
to walk away. Stay,
he pleads, the husband
who, the night before,
had threatened
to cause a bloody nose
if I didn’t share my savings,
and that morning: never mind.

He argues instead that
a car trip would do us good—
fall season,
leaves—and I worry
I’ll be like all those lost
in shallow graves
off highways,
eyes eaten by crows.

Susana H. Case