Lisa Russ Spaar


Otherwise, why open
eyes to these fists, fobs,
broken combs of rain,
the window a sodden
printout of torn bloom,
the femoral lightning
stalk of you deep inside,
a place I had not hoped
to touch, the ditches, the ruts
feral, all gutters growling,
& grunt of the chair, hackled,
beneath us, if not to know
this flanged, unshackled,
antlered cry as mine?