Valentine House

My mother grew up
in the basement of a retirement home.
Tired, the residents shuffled to dinner.
One man
stood every night
at the head of the table without clothes
years of gravity
evident in his sagging,
translucent skin.

The yard of fruit trees bled sweet
in the summer, tender and dripping
on the melting asphalt.
Each plum had a worm
and my grandmother
with the succulent heart
in the curve of her palm
would cut
out the tainted square
 of dark flesh.

Adam and Eve

I let my feet sink
into the cool mud.
It reminds me of my cheek
sliding past yours,
familiar.
Winter air
engulfed us.
Your station wagon coughed exhaust.

I wonder of life, wide and cyclic.
How many times
will I watch the same roads pass
before finding
my true destination?

Following the weaving path
to the highway,
our soles stamped
quietly into the earth.
Heavy with the knowledge
that cars still moved
blurry
onward,
and we, stumbling
searching
for things we did not know.