Loose Ends

I see the threads are coming loose and frayed

constructed bands unknot along your wrist,

the tenderness of hanging on betrayed.

Despite the love with which each knot was made,

they snap, unwrap; the faded colors twist.

I see the threads are coming loose and frayed.

We’ve kept our distance from the truth displayed.

We walked in blindness, seeming to insist

the tenderness of hanging on betrayed.

We don’t expect to see our bonds decayed;

yet peering through the cracks of lips unkissed,

I see the threads are coming loose and frayed.

We’ve kept our silence, each of us afraid

the other saw the ending. We resist

the tenderness of hanging on. Betrayed.

Convenience or devotion--well, we stayed.

Corroding, disconnecting, we subsist.

I see the threads are coming loose and frayed,

the tenderness of hanging on betrayed.

It's too late, we're closer to the other side

Imagine the intoxicating chance

to choose the genome for an embryo.

Inherited afflictions would at last

become eradicated. From below,

evolving dust of hair and skin, appears

superiority personified.

No need to glance at one whose lesser ears

are deaf, or at the man with clouded eyes.

Yet who would gauge potential from alleles?

A strand of double helix won’t foretell

ambition, perseverance, passion, zeal--

these traits are absent from the basic cell.

Our good intentions marred, we must admit:

“There is no gene for the human spirit.”

Muscle Memory

As I drift off to sleep, I turn

toward the window.

You’re still at my back, and only

an arm’s reach away.

But with my next cycle of sleep,

without any consciousness

or memory,

my legs are thrown over

yours. Sometimes I wake up

that way,

early in the morning.

My limbs strewn

carelessly,

the way I leave everything

on the kitchen table.

It’s a comfortable habit

that means

I’m home.

Fragile

There you sit, so smug, upon

my feet. Licking bloody lips,

lazily, the memory gone

of games you played with

our escaped snake until

there was no more

writhing. He was still,

quiet. No fun, anymore.

You have taught our daughter

about death. With her small hands, she brings

the mangled, slaughtered

bodies of mice, and birds with broken wings

to us. We wash her hands,

and tell her it’s all right.

We softly explain, so she understands:

death is part of life.

Now you rest, rumbling

purr resonating against my

ankle bones, reaching

your eager head toward me in pride.

You monster. You beast.

You leave us these headless, limp

creatures, as if we should be pleased.

As if they were gifts.

Autumn Rain

The heavy weight of a cat

curled on my feet.

The soft breathing I know

exists just past that thin wall,

two small chests rising

and falling,

snoring through sucked thumbs

and the congestion that comes

with Autumn

and childhood.

The window panes

which make a slanted ceiling.

I’m enjoying all this rain, while

it’s warm enough to rain.

You can’t hear snow

pound on glass.

And out this window,

in the morning, we will see

through clear blue to

the lake.

Outside, the wooden archway,

where we hoped in vain

the vines would grow, stands as a mouth

to a hill of aspens.

We made vows under that archway.

Right out this window,

overlooking that lake.

We were so afraid

it would rain.

It was the hottest day in September.