|Apr/May 2002 • Poetry • Special Feature|
Our bodies click, hip snug
to hip, jigsawed, snapped
together, a perfect puzzle:
ring over knuckle,
bride over threshhold,
every room baptized til our house
glows home, children on swings leap
with deadly intent to safe
landings, everything picket-fenced.
Groove into groove, we'll watch
the moon wax, and know, at last,
what full is. The parachute
will open, slow the descent
of this jump, and soften
our entangled landing.