Counterpoint
1991
I am the weight
at the opposite end of the scale.
In country where it rains
eight feet a year, the green kin
in my windows traveled here
from deserts where their fleshy leaves
stored scarce water and their spines
squared off against death’s teeth.
As I meander into love with you
I dream your death,
dispassionately wonder if you’ll be
the one I get around to
murdering.
Each day we kill our loves
a little more carefully.
I say what no one wants to hear.
My laugh is loud and impolite,
my silence has sharp edges.
When my hands clap rhythm
they reach for counterpoint.
You tell me you don’t know
if anyone can dance with me.
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