Carol Matos

TO SPIN IN SEPARATE ORBITS 

 

I am not my actual size.
I’m a wobble in the earth’s turn,

a vanished world of forests
and elephants at a watering hole.

He squints with heavy lids
as we talk past each other

(moon-eyes no more)
ice-cold hands, burns on our faces.

I try to tell him, I’ve lost
something—lilacs have burst.

Then he draws pictures
of the rain causing a landslide,

an ice age. Fossils that have not seen
the light in 100,000 years appear—

debris full of bones and tusks.
A snapshot of our lives—

steeped in time’s turmoil.
I agitate for something else,

say to him, tusks are teeth too
growing beyond a creature’s mouth,  

used for other purposes
you can’t imagine.

His brow questions
my meaning yet he answers,

that’s not surprising,
and goes on.
 


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