What can biology do?
It’s only an imprint.
a frayed old predictable thing
lying between layers of skin; too hearty
to touch matters of the soul,
too heavy to hold how far light can go.
I’ve been told I’m quite something;
too big to live a life beating between two ribs;
too big, too special, too free,
too immortal to be
tied down by a biological imprint.
But rain clouds ripe and ready to spill,
swarm and froth at my hills; boding
to howl, crash and storm
not returning her telephone call.
Mother, we spoke last week,
and since then the world has remained still;
I hate work and you baked something new again-
lives roll as raw as noon TV.
Under the tier of cherry icing
I know you’re as tired as me.
Tired of watching our shine fade,
from fierce gold to sullen grey cold
and the weight of our sweet and sour
It’s the same tragedy, the same famine
that lives in our cracks and imprints.
So, mother how can you fear
that the winds will blow us apart?
I can only fly as far as the biology
of your heart.