Thoroughfare

First her face presses through.
A gentle thump, warm chest punch.
Next the exit wound.

Head born, she begins.
No longer seeing what is packed dark,
what is organ within him.

Her shoulders force the hole.
Hands bore through his back
like a flock of geese.

It is when her heart
beats inside his
that he loses footing.

Down on his knee
she drops him, swiffs
through like arrow wind.

Hands clutch at the invisible
egg of her, but there is no shape
to gather in passing.

Her waist, thighs, small toes—
all sharp lines—depart his spine.
The final cuts let no blood.

Perhaps the lines are Ls
starting to say leave or love,
but no sounds follow.

Her word is incomplete,
vagrant, vague. Who can sustain
the sound of endless L?

It makes a warm cave
of the mouth
we can’t live in, but brave.

His breath is meant—
her breath is meant—
to run out.

2013