if you were a gasping
New Mexican wasteland,
I would learn how to irrigate, and I'd dig it all myself,
I'd dig it with my fingernails until they fell off and
then I'd use them as little shovels, I'd drain lake after
river after
ocean to bring life to you
and when it was all said and done, when I was finally
satisfied
by your satisfaction,
you'd remind me how without thirst, there would be no
pleasure in drinking. you'd remind me of all of the animals
and plants and earthly cycles that have been ruined by
my actions. you would remind me how a life full of
thirst might be
more meaningful
than a life full of
drinking.

and if you were you
and your body was dying from cancer,
or a car accident, or old age,
couldn't you imagine that I would give you
every
single
thing good about mine without thinking twice, that I'd
render my own body completely useless
until you had the bone marrow, or the normal amount of
skin, or the kidney, or the blood.
And when you finally were alive enough to part your
lips again you'd tell me
how if you could choose, you'd be dead
because life isn't the same anymore, and how if people
don't die
then the newly born will have no place to go
and how nothing's going to last very long this time
anyway.