They eat out

In restaurants we argue

over which of us will pay for your funeral

though the real question is

whether or not I will make you immortal.

At the moment only I

can do it and so

I raise the magic fork

over the plate of beef fried rice

and plunge it into your heart.

There is a faint pop, a sizzle

and through your own split head

you rise up glowing;

the ceiling opens

a voice sings Love Is A Many

Splendoured Thing

you hang suspended above the city

in blue tights and a red cape,

your eyes flashing in unison.

The other diners regard you

some with awe, some only with boredom:

they cannot decide if you are a new weapon

or only a new advertisement.

As for me, I continue eating;

I liked you better the way you were,

but you were always ambitious.