I fear not the least
but the lukewarm
and the whole.
Bread on the counter,
a full moon, a stop, a kiss,
three sighs in the span of
five minutes. I fear not
your smile but the joy
I will find lacking, or not.

We see three children in the street,
unclothed, unabashed, unclean
and you take my hand, saying,
"That will never be us,"
I nod to myself, knowing you mean
those words with pride. I mean
to make them a ward. I fear,
you see: that will never be us,
us like children's laughter.

My mouth runs away from me in horror.
My legs keep me still.
Here is a wreck of a body
trembling in an aftermath.
There is so much to fear.
You are so much to fear.
I wish three times for succor;
puddles are steel sheets on the ground.

When we are old we will shout
to each other across the strait
and love each other through
binoculars.

Is this
this
this
life, lukewarm and whole?


Copyright 2011 Cristina Cheng