Poetry

Necessity

feel our fingers laced together in the space between us
and imagine forty-eight ribs knit as a single torso;

three lungs between us swelling in unison;
a single heart straining as it beats for both,

failing even now in the sleep drawn over us as a blanket,
its chambers and valves such an imperfect mirror of themselves—

and i, by lottery of birth, gifted the larger part, the left side:
i cleanse your blood, i give you breath, i hold you closed.

you must know, somewhere in the parts we share,
in the darkness of closed eyelids, in our faltering rhythms,

that every ticking minute you claim is a stolen one of mine
recanted before judge and executioner as they trial your theft in absentia.

here in my bloodied hand the scalpel awaits decision,
poised to sever.

Amy Kinsman