The Germ Suspended

After René Magritte’s Elective Affinities

 

Last night when we wed, we dived in tandem

through the O of a great oak headboard, our

nightclothes tattered and flying behind us.

 

Tonight I walked in on you sawing apart

the bed, several spent blades and their

broken teeth littering the floor.

 

That triumphant arch, now cruelly bifurcated,

shackles two of the posts, intact but severed

and affixed by some horrendous glue.

 

I will never understand why you made it

so pretty: two of the posts dismantled

and recombined, one as axis of pedestal,

one as cross brace. The two uprights

bracketed chessboard knights dutifully

standing guard. Where did you learn such

carpentry? Where did you store the tools?

 

In my one night of matrimonial rest,

and under cover of sweetness, did you

wrest from me my egg and grow it to fill

your unyielding cage, welded with no

door, no chance to hatch, feed, or ever escape.

 

The germ suspended, the finials are proud

that we will never sleep again. Between

the cold wires I can stroke the shell,

smooth and white as alabaster. It contains

everything. It is mine. And it will never move.

Sara Comito writes, fishes and farms in Fort Myers, Florida. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in places like Blue Five Notebook, Thrush Poetry Journal, A-Minor Magazine, Mojave River Reivew, and Mockingheart Review.

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