Little crumbs and tree and bone
and all that's left of time inside
our bodies and I am insatiable
when it comes to saving you,
my ally, my last wreckage of.
It's business, this vanishing, to come
and go like little mice. We don't survive.
Because of each other. We survive. Marriage
is a wilderness we must all come out
of. Pull me from the poplar. Let's learn
to un-love like a million others. There
are centuries surrounding us on both
sides: years of doom and dagger,
years of lict and licked. And what
we love about time is what we love
about failure: we can't stop it. It comes
towards us with both hands. It glows
for us in the night. A wife tethered
to a husband tethered to a wife. We last,
because we have lasted. Because leaving
is the hardest way to travel. It's brave
to lose the part of you that can't be lost.
To whittle a marriage down to its bones
and finally say I want you to be gone in the morning.
Outside there's a kingdom full entirely
of newness. Inside we are two old gods.
There is no space we can keep together.
In the rung, tough cold we'll kiss heaven
goodbye. And the bed will fight us
from across the room, where still we'll come,
and breathe as we go: nth and nth and nth.
Colorado Review Summer 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Kimberly Grey
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission