Last Imagining My Death Poem

Lynne Potts

I’m pretending I’m back under the fig tree like the one in Italy
when I persuaded you to stop for a picnic of cheese, bread,
prosciutto and wine. As it turned out the figs were perfect
for picking and we each had several until we almost burst—
our first trip since we got back together after thirty years,
the children grown now, our others lovers in the past
but we never married them and there we were
having a picnic under the fig tree and I’m thinking I could
die now because it won’t get any better but of course
I didn’t die and here we are in a winter kitchen months
later and I’m making lasagna and you are setting the table
which is your job and right now I’m not imagining my death.