What reconciles me to my own death more than anything else is the image
of a place: a place where your bones and mine are buried, thrown,
uncovered, together. They are strewn there pell-mell. One of your ribs
leans against my skull. A metacarpal of my left hand lies inside your
pelvis. (Against my broken ribs your breast like a flower.) The hundred
bones of our feet are scattered like gravel. It is strange that this
image of our proximity, concerning as it does mere phosphate of calcium,
should bestow a sense of peace. Yet it does. With you I can imagine a
place where to be phosphate of calcium is enough.
