The Fieldstone Review

Epithalamion 2

It is a violent restoration. Like song.
Like the first time a child gathers
In the folds of a very long night
And calls the other out of himself
To make escape. We hesitate
Because thinking of new weight
Brought into us, having been split
And grown accustomed to the familiar
Half -- its lips, bones, its mirror
Piercing outward, we find ourselves
Suddenly unequal to this mythology.

If the body is strangled by a mission
Of completion -- if the stars
Yoke the unsuspecting sufficients
Prior to birth, breath, intention,
Do we claim we are sought? Bound?
When all the long while, we sew
Ourselves nets and drag the depths.