Can any of us lay claim to these scars,
this wreckage which begets us
and abridges us for the sake of survival?
There is no blood in our roots
only the tenuous civility of strangers
dining in the same room.
Though the same eyes
memories betray us, like fingerprints.
When we are one, will I still exist
or, will I be someone else entirely?
No matter how lacking the divisible
it cannot but feel like death
to return into the great white nothingness
of one’s incipient consciousness.
I am accountable for you
in the same way that nature
must accommodate her protrusions.
That she may not drown
in the amniotic sac as I have done.
In my aggravation I have
encumbered much, mostly time.
Imagine compelling whole armies
to a war that does not exist.
I check my pulse
as she lay whispering
in the wash basin.
My dreams repeal each other,
and as I scramble to gather them
I can’t help thinking what is the point?
I cut loose the pocket from my dress.
The rumpled napkin
that is my anxious heart
falling in fathoms.
How old she is in comparison
to my other organs
and how utterly exhausted.
I watch her blooming,
spreading her red unpalatable seed
over the tile and she is deep,
a well of infinite negotiations.
One life for another and then another
until there isn’t anyone left
to perpetuate the illusion.
Another rejected piece. I am not upset by the rejections. I am satisfied with the poems I wrote for the magazines.