reborn as chickens and could not stand the smell.
We fell on our knees, backwards, pain shooting pins up
The sciatica, which sounds like a new model of car.
We fell wrestling on bare mattresses, grappling with strange
New appendages, welcoming strange new paroxysms.
We were bundled like starchy pasta, peeling ourselves
Slowly away from each other, trying to smile.
We didn't want to lose our sense of humor so
Laughed at the blood fountaining from our holes.
We were lovely, really, as the tops of infants' heads.
You and I fell asleep in some tacky material and
Dreamed we were butterflies, and also lepidopterists.
You and I have always had complex dreams that open
Up into new conjoined universes that explode
On impact and make us groggy in the morning,
Groping for our oversized coffee mugs.
New exercises for new muscles. Gargling. Dilation.
A double dose of happy hygiene. Good
Morning, honey. Our beaks clack when we kiss.
I'd like to say that this poem was born
out of both great love for my wife,
Karry, and devotion to Buddhist practice. But the truth is, I have no
where this poem came from. Too many boneless breasts? Too much of my own