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MARRIAGE, AFTER OUR FIRST CHILD
​

I can no longer trust myself
how I take the life 
out of everything--
stifle sound, shade us
from sunlight, strip drama
from the landscape.
 
I remember deserts we crossed
by night, boulders with their long shadows 
threatening our death 
and better to fuck by.
 
I’ve sanded down the edges; even
the stars were too bright.
 
Blinded as we are now to the bio-
luminescence, I’ve moved us 
to the coast, a bay rigged with oil
fine enough for walking; 
you wouldn’t want it 
for a swim.  
 
The last time you came
to the beach you were left 
holding the bag (we’re no good 
for a threesome anymore).
 
Poking at hermits, you asked
does anybody still have legs? 
 
And me, there rubbing out
jellyfish stings with baby pink 
potions as the spilled petroleum
cleaves to baby’s feet
only to be faced down
with baby oil--
all of it a labor
 
after which I’d trade an ocean 
for a kiddie pool in the yard. 
 
I do, my love (I’ve done)
with our appetites, killed
the hunt to hang our skins aside
that couple of clean diapers 
on the line to dry.  
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  • HOME
  • ISSUE 12
  • SUBMISSIONS
    • Submission Form
  • ABOUT
  • LITTLE BLACK BOOK
    • A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS
  • SHOP