At the Edge of You
At the edge of my husband
comes my edge, his wife's edge,
intertwining spikes of green love
and a melted smell, like something
carmelized. So sweet you grimace.
Along all these edges, lines of
ink, fences. What he can't read.
What I can't play, or build.
He sticks his fingers in the socket.
I scrape and scrape and scrape away.
The house has an edge, the yard
ends. My husband ends and I begin.
The opposite is also true. And then sometimes
we dig a tunnel, secretly, and break the law
of edges. But not right now. Not now.
If you've any comments on this poem, Jessy Randall would be
pleased to hear from you.