you and me, babe

by Kim Groninga and James D. Autio

 

Prickly things find float on breath

and stab at little legs asleep,

knee scabs from sidewalk skip.

You and me, babe, bowl of stew

where stems and shoots will grow

and loop. Reach for our salted lips--

staid and honey under canvas flaps

near the fire pit. I'd rather hedge 

this land, this life, than break bread

or boundaries, or bones of birds--

that which the wrinkle crutch dreads

though, with slight conceal, we're fond

of death. We've seen his eyes. We've found

his hairpin path through calcium and brine

adrift in a pickling jar, alone and sane

to make dance for atone soirée

and still. For this we pay.

Our currency is wire and wound.

Pride for the love we feigned

as twill misers at the edge of wealth.