Trifles – withstanding death’s gate as heirlooms, becoming. A freckle between breasts.
We forged our histories. Blackened the handle inscribed to our wash tags as though we hadn’t shared a short drive through a snow-globe’s stooped tree-limbs, the aging bungalows crouched to scale, and let its sick breeze curl our sleeves.
Years we obeyed the chiseling for dysmorphic hollows and fasted for slight hands capable of cupping within, knuckles like anniversary knots, and carving an ampersand when a heart was nearly as easy as our names.
No heirlooms follow but the torrent we lie proofless beside. A pane once shaken that’ll silence the half of me.
Zouch Magazine published "&" in December 2011 with a strange gap isolating the last stanza from the whole. Not a huge mistake, but certainly distracting. I contacted them, asking for the space to be removed, and they said they'd try. Over two years later, I decided to do the grunt work myself (hitting backspace twice) and thus feature the poem in its proper, insofar unseen, form. Welcome home, old boy.