another grey morning, and I am
breathing in the window rain,
feet soft on the quiet linoleum, my hands
sticky with chicken grease, slipping
knife between skin and flesh,
planning our evening meal. he
is still sleeping, hands curling gently
on my pillow, shoulders curving
along the horizon, turning slowly
in the long soft lashes
of dreams. en route to the morning
mail, I pass neighbour boy of seventeen, all
Calvin Klein Harley Davidson smelling faintly
of Vaseline, leaning hardcore casual, stutters
at my "Good morning." I want
to ask him, "Do you know? There is
honey sweet comfort sleeping in my bed, last night's
lipstick still on his shoulder. I will hold him
when his arms stretch open the morning. He would
stand in the Rain for me. If I asked.
And I would. Do you know? It is simple, and perfect,
and solid as toothmarks on driftwood." another grey
morning, and I am preparing chicken
for our evening meal. it occurs to me
that this creature lived for me, died
to be embalmed with my mushroom soy marinara.
such soft, vulnerable skin; such a pale,
sad tail for the trash. I will taste your sweet flesh
with all the bowed heads of communion.
such perfection! such dedication! to spread
flightless wings, and scream, and be
broken, and die
for this quiet
grey glory
