Perseverating

by Kerry Lynd

To welcome the bodies of our daughters

And dance on the feet of our sons

To open the mouths of our mothers

And reach our hands behind their teeth, down where the blood rushes warm

The air, when the sun comes, has a yellow smell (you know it)

And the phone rings—

Could we stay here in this hidden place?

It feels safe enough, it is warm enough,

We must only dodge the masticating canines and hide from the slurping tongues

Or else we may be eaten alive.

Our sons, they grow into men,

And our daughters become their wives.

Or—

Their bodies soften with every passing year

While all the rest grows sharp.

I have not spoken of our fathers.

They, too, are men.