What is Left

How subtly we age
each morning into day
in this house of raddled timber.

You stand in the doorway,
the sun yellow and green
and brown through the trees.

Though we have bruised
our thighs into an arch
of white light, we cannot

reconcile our desires. We change
our open hearts into salmon
and send them downstream.

We cannot wish on ourselves,
and we have no children.
What is left? The words

we share we touch
to our mouths, the ritual
that becomes our food.

We leave like hunters
going out one morning
with no guns.

Published in The Blue Sofa Review