The Way We Move
I gave in to you in an exhale of broken pinfeathers, the soft snarl of a cornered coyote
Some fragile, trapped thing trying to chew its own foot off, determined to live on
With a broken, bloodied stump for a paw. You were oblivious to the struggle
Saw only instead the dead weight I would add to your already painful burden.
This house has become a tiny raft on a rough river, a barricade
Against some kind of reality, a fire-wielding mob,
the phone calls that come in the middle of the night
That may or may not signal the death of someone important to one or both of us.
There is no time for love here. We don’t speak of how much time we’d need.