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.