The School of Eternities

Do you remember the two types of eternity, how we learned
about them in a Wegmans parking lot, when you turned

on the radio, the classical channel? Why
were they even talking about eternity, what

did it have to do with the suddenly
broody guitars? You had a peach

Snapple, I remember the snappy kissy sound of the lid
coming off in your hand. One type of eternity, they said, is inside

of time, as endless time—life
without death. We were inside our Toyota. I said, We need

a new umbrella. Do you remember
when we first rhymed? Do you remember the first time I asked

you about the rain, the expression,
“It’s raining cats & dogs,” whether it was equally cats & dogs,

falling? Can you remember when you learned the word
“immortality”? The hosts on the classical channel

were okay, I thought you’d do a much better job. I remember saying
so, while you drove us home. Our apartment, our

third. Remember the day we moved
into our first? The boxes of books & boxes of

books? My books? Our sweating up three flights of the greenest
stairs? & you said, Never again? & the again, & again,

&? The other type of eternity is outside of time, beyond it,
no beginning, no end. I remember. Your hand, the lid, your hands,

the steering wheel, your lips, your lips. The way you took a sip,
gave me a kiss, before starting

to drive.

Do you remember the first time you drove
me home, before “home” meant where we both lived, the books

on the shelves, the books in the closet
when I ran out of shelves, the second apartment, West

Texas, remember the dust, the flat, another type of eternity, that dusty
sun? & driving

to the supermarket, what was it called
there? & that hand soap we’d get, which scent

was your favorite? I don’t remember what it was called, can’t
remember exactly the smell,

but your hands, after washing, I remember
kissing them. Don’t you remember when we thought

only some things were ephemera?
Can you remember when you learned the word

“ephemera,” the word “immortality”? Probably the latter
first, & isn’t that something,

immortality first, then menus
& movie tickets. What was the first nickname, the fifth

umbrella, the type of taco you ordered on our sixteenth
trip, remember driving, remember when we thought the world

of the world, remember how I signed the letter
explodingly yours, do you remember you were

driving, we were halfway home, only eight minutes
from Wegmans, remember when we measured distance

in terms of Wegmans, like it was a lighthouse
or pyramid or sacred tree, remember when your name

was Fluttersaurus Vex & mine
wasn’t, remember when I lived like a letter, falling

in cartoonish slow-mo down four flights of stairs, did you picture
a letter of the alphabet or a letter I’d written

to you, remember when I asked you about the rain, when
the wizard jumped out, when I lied & you laughed, when I lied

& I lied & I lied, can you remember
last night, how I crossed my arms

as though dead & arranged just so, how I pictured my face
polished, as though alive, &

no, you can’t remember
that, since it happened while you were sleeping & I

wasn’t, I was up, wondering why people always talk about death
as sleep, & how much I love sleep, hate death,

& have I told you about the student who said, I’m really,
really afraid of death, just like that,

in class, it was fitting, because it was poetry
class, ha ha, & I loved it, her saying that, I wanted to say I loved it,

but couldn’t, I was thinking about you sleeping
& me not, about me sleeping

& you not, & what even is outside of time, beyond
then, now, no

thanks, I’d prefer the type of eternity where we
are inside, are

us, & last night’s movie good,
not great, a stray piece of popcorn still under

our coffee table.

Do you remember when the world
signed the letter yours ephemerally?

Remember when I asked you about the rain,
the cats & dogs of it,

if it was 50% cats, 50% dogs, 100%
falling, & you said, Of course?

& you said, She’s gotten, the flight’s not till, I’m going
to drive. I remember you

driving to your mother, West Texas
to Upstate New York, you didn’t make it in time, she had little time,

then none. I remember your face pressed
into my shoulder. I remember your mother was an endless,

a question your face asked into my shoulder. How I wanted it
to answer because I couldn’t. I didn’t go

with you, when I could’ve, I chose a poetry reading
instead, thought, she’ll be there, you’ll be, is memory the best

eternity we can make?
The only?

& you said it’s equal, the cats & dogs raining
down, though in terms of overall

volume. The rain, it’s all the different breeds of cat, of dog, & see,
there are more individual cats, since there are more

very large breeds of dog,
the cats have to balance things out

with their number, but the dogs, don’t you worry, they’re raining
down, too, & they’re rain,

absolutely, they’re still rain, the cats & dogs,
lots of water for the plants, for the flowers, for the whole street

& our dusty car windows, for the cats & dogs
on the ground, the cats & dogs

that aren’t rain, at least
not yet, & maybe that’s another

eternity, the rainy type.

I remember you drove us home.
The radio was on. We made a sound like a lid coming off.