All Standard Perils
by James King
For Jenn
We will share the cruelty of every morning.
Every parting and arrival will come
in pairs, like socks or antiparticles
and particles that separate and return,
annihilating in all space. I will give up
a whole genre of poems—the kind
in which I have to leave you. No more
long drives home on a road made unfamiliar
by rain. Your books and my books,
now co-conspirators, will whisper together
in the language they’ve always known
but never had the chance to speak.
We might doubt whether the moon
will still show herself in our new bay window, but
she will teach us just as much from here,
remaining uncapturable, her grim beautiful seas.
I fear sometimes, when you hold me down
onto the carpet, you will feel the whole
breadth of my creature, the whole tusk and stubble
like that proverb of the elephant and the blind.
Other times I hope for it. I listen for the sound
of your voice from another room, of
the toilet tank too slow to fill. May we sleep
peacefully, but some nights let the dreams
keep our bodies awake and forgive
the church down the street, empty and barely
holy in its robe of snow—
let this reanimated life be the service
we give day after day after day.
About the author:
James King holds an MFA from UNCW and serves as co-Poetry Editor for Bear Review. A Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee, his poems have appeared in The Boiler, ONE ART, Passages North, The Shore, and others. When not writing, you can find him working his day job as a college admissions officer or playing viola in a community orchestra. He lives in New Hampshire with his partner. Find him online at jamesedwardking.net.