Deciding to End Your Life, You Thank Me

When you looked up and said, “Thank you,” I saw

your gratitude rise over us like rain.

It seemed external to us both—an awe

of what we were about to do (a sane

alternative to modern agony).

The dryness between us had been like climate,

like desiccation, like chapped lips only

chapped everything. You’d stopped being a mate,

stopped thanking. I’d begun drying up rough

as a towel in wind.

                              So, your thank you was rain.

It swept through like a front—one thanks enough

to drench everything. It was pouring! Plain

moisture plumping cells from without—and within ...

I stood getting soaked to a rapid bloom,

knowing you knew the wasteland we’d been in,

and, from this, we’d make your desert garden.