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.