The Critical Pass Review, Spring 2014
There under your nails, the grit
And slurry, dirt of a day spent
Elsewhere. Happens grimy bit
By bit: where you went
From the door, from my arms,
From the crescent, cool embrace
Of fevered false alarms
That twist and tumble to make space
For your new presence. This steady
Self, bright and blue and sure
Of knowledge? I’m not ready
To run behind. Still hear the tinny lure
Of the first and best delusion: find
Time a friend. Then you return
A day’s crackling misadventure. Mind
The gap between a mother’s pride and burn.