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One' Fourty Four

One Flesh

Lying apart now, each in a separate bed,

He with a book, keeping the light on late,

She like a girl dreaming of childhood,

All men elsewhere - it is as if they wait

Some new event: the book he holds unread,

Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead.

Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion,

How cool they lie. They hardly ever touch,

Or if they do, it is like a confession

Of having little feeling - or too much.

Chastity faces them, a destination

For which their whole lives were a preparation.

Strangely apart, yet strangely close together,

Silence between them like a thread to hold

And not wind in. And time itself's a feather

Touching them gently. Do they know they're old,

These two who are my father and my mother

Whose fire from which I came, has now grown cold?

>>> Elizabeth Jennings

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