What is it about love
that makes me sharpen my teeth?
Like a fox at the henhouse door
I pace the threshold
half-hungry, half-afraid,
listening for the flutter
that might mean ruin
that might mean feast
I leave the door open
as if love were a guest
already gathering its coat
I keep the exit light on
neon blinking
inviting, practicing goodbyes
before the room is even empty
Why do I think I can grasp the wind,
when to still it
would be to kill it?
I turn to the tide with this question
and it replies only by pulling away
then returning
as if to say:
love is not kept thing.
The answer is small and ordinary
I must place my palm
Open
in the river
knowing it will not stop
but pass through me
Alex @aelindsay
