i can do this, i ‘ve done this a million times, in a million different lives. night air crisp, walking through the canyon streets, she asks, have you killed yourself before? and i lie, i lie holding her hand, i lie as i put a wrinkled dollar into the hat of the jazzman playing on the corner. i lie as we turn corners and watch beggars sift through the city’s garbage, so clean of life, of anything edible. i lie down in the morning and feel the sun etch angry fingers across my face. our daughter leaps into bed while my son cries from another room, cradle stranded. she asks, fingering open my red red eyes, are you alive daddy? reaching for the curve of my wife’s hip, i now am. i am now.