Friday, June 23, 2017

lo, the swaddled lettuce wilts

Akedah, she is easy.
Her yoke it is not that one which is heavy
and her many suitcases, dark they ain't.

We stop mid laugh and I think
but do not put to voice
the question from
an other Friday bed-
time ritual revamped.
But her answer sings
in the wind that blows
my napkin off the table--
twice--that hums beneath
the melody
harmonized in laughs between
our twin blue eyes.

Two souls, one body, Dr. Aristotle
scribbles on prescription pad
you are indelibly inscribed,
conscripted, even
into constellation Philia,
ancient, riddled with
supernovas perpetually
composing new suns from their dust.

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