Necrophile Hold

On our commute past the RCMP station,
the car transmission stalls, and
he beseeches, Forgive me, and just like that
you can be broken up.

It’s like you said, leaving
is natural, like a reflex away
from touch

or hogs saying, HANDS UP!
I don’t remember — when you told me, It’s not you,
was it so we wouldn’t crash, or so we would?

I’m ill, I’m wont to recall: Alphagetti
sick on the floor, a misdialed prank
call, your tarot reading

in the chaplain’s centre — I didn’t realize
then what the Devil’s card means
drawn upside-down.

What was I supposed to do?
There are worse things than a message after
the beep. What can I remember?

The opal’s dim shimmer, the translucent
jelly over blue organ, your hand
on the small of my back.

Yesterday, I caught frogs in a bog
by the dike, to save them from what,
I don’t know.

I still have visions of rug, upholstery imprinted
on sodden flesh; I am not a bad person;
I forgive myself.
I tell them
he was dying anyway.

Z.Y. Yang (they/her) is a writer, poet and haver of many names. They were born in Wuhan, China and grew up in Alberta. Currently an M.A. in Creative Writing student at the University of Toronto, their poems have appeared in Room, CV2 and Poetry is Dead. More: Twitter @sblyang