Epithalamia
Butane, propane
and lungful of diesel.
I did not stand a chance.
Always with poison
breath, bill, responsibility:
a man with rote hands.
Everything in exchange,
rain in a frozen season.
Our roof, roofs strung
with hot wire. Our love,
what was, an impression
of light, gaunt: there is
nothing to get.
—Joan Kane
SHARKPACK Poetry Review 