By | 15 February 2023

In a country, not his country, two might touchdown.
She might touch his hand, say, our country. Two might

not look back at homes built elsewhere from chicken fat,
roaches, water-oak rootedness, and a hope for children.

Two might have worked through practices of forgiveness,
breathless asanas, daily downward existence, heads full

of blood. Two might breathe palm-fronds, boabs, spinifex.
Two might have left friends behind, friends like the ones

who flame-threw their hearts without flame. Without fire.
Two might not look back, might turn their back on a world

that claims mating for life is outlandish. Two might say
something about exhalation is comprehensive, might say

how little is known of the monogamous heart——how
little is known of the fierce faith of the French Angelfish.

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