Tense

Benjamin S. Grossberg

My species has one for nouns

in the process of passing: say,

a planet you no longer stand on

but which still exerts on（施加于） you its

considerable tug, the fist

of its massy core reaching

up through groin（腹股沟） and torso（躯干）.

A way, then, to say, not I am

on this world or I was, but

that other state, the one

between. We use it to discuss

the dying -- though usually not

to their faces -- and dinner --

as plates are cleared -- also love

in its last phases, the sharp

jerk before it, too, falls back

lifeless on the bed. Therefore

we listen especially carefully

to a soured beloved for

the inflection of ending:

that inflected ending (the slip

like a sheet of paper torn

lengthwise) added to a verb,

a susurrant（喃喃低语的） gut punch.

Once, a planet dweller and I

shared years in this tense

reality as if his couch were set

on a cliff edge: moonless

planet in the sparsely starred

rim of the galaxy. We spoke

of ourselves, our common life

this way: never we are, we were --

but drawn out years

in a liminal mood. I started

to get used to it -- and to him --

and imagined an entire

existence like that, hunched（缩成一团的）

under afghans in dark night,

feet over the edge, dangling.