by Chris Litsey
One said that poems were like music
Our ancestors sang into our souls.
The other was captivated by the tendrils
Of fate she found herself bound within.
He was obsessed too,
Obsessive to a fault,
Finding faults in the failings of frail cards,
Guided by the incessant turnings of midnight readings.
She was something hanging in the sky by a
Rope, swinging, rotting in the air,
Surrendering to fate,
Accepting the pendulum of death.
They were inseparable.
No matter how many beds he crawled into,
He could not escape her shadow,
Looming over him and the children.
No matter how much he hurt, she could
Only follow his figure through
Clouds of incense smoke and longing.
She choked in smoke,
Protected the children from her dying.
He died every day without her, possessed
By his misery, murdering through lashing out.
They poured into each other.
They poured out of each other.
Both were full, then empty, then gone.