Radka Thea Otípková

            I am waiting for you. Part of my wall

            will need to go to get you in. It will

            never heal, this is how they'll find me,

            small, perfunctory, unfit for a king, but

            I'll hold it all: chariots, thrones, trumpets,

            perfumes, precious oils, lapis and gold,

            and apricots, oh, apricots, I'll often

            imagine them perishing in the dark long after

            they have gone, I'll recall the odour of lamb

            changing in strength, from a mere waft

            to a putrid punch – who'd ever think

            in cessation there is so much life – no,

            no eternity's resins and balms

            can stop the bustle of dying in the jars

            housing your liver and lungs,

            or in the muffled echo of your anatomy's

            final sarcophagus. I'll never miss you.

            You will never not be with me

            and when even the deaths have died

            and there's nothing left but desiccated time,

            I shall still keep the breathing riddle of you

            inside your missing heart.