by Cyril Dabydeen
Their meeting lasted three years
to be exact. They exchanged bones,
overlapped with skin, heaving
with the same breath day after day.
The night held them in frenzy
as their blood leaked out in the dark.
They pulsated with glued mouth,
rubbed against each other
In the momentum of their beating hearts;
then something came upon the scene—
A hard thing with minuscule eyes:
it stood without bone or flesh—
It mirrored their dissatisfaction;
it rubbed sandpaper against their eyes,
Scraping away the light and the dark,
soon they were left in the void—
In silence they whispered to each other
words that neither could understand,
And they quickly bared teeth
holding on to thunder and lightning—
And screamed out an answer
that finally set them apart.
This poem originally appeared in Canadian Literature #172 (Spring 2002), Auto / biography. (pg. 39)