Some seek simple answers:

the make up of our skin,

the amount of venom needed

to stop a beating heart.

 

We’ve know this for a long time.

Could silence you at each approach,

but do not.  Will not.  Now

 

            we are but beauty

            shed from moon,

            taking you into our tides.

 

This wash of ocean

should push us back,

but we let it pass

the lace of our bodies,

these streamers of self,

anchors for a little while

 

until in fall

our bodies thicken.

Like paper now

ripped on rock,

we open,

deposit our seed, and die.

 

There are no simple answers.

 

Published in Freshwater 2006