[for & against] Longing

Longing was invented in a drought town,               where grass kindles but can't catch fire,

        can't light like candle wicks or sparklers,in the dreams of mothers

who taught us to stitch life        into the body like a rare organ,

        in the cool blue abandon filling their hands,the blue of Picasso's Mother & Child.

My lover & I uncovered an egg one summer,        nestled in our ruined electrical box,

               in brambles mimicking talons—there was a rebellious logic in choosing

        a box abandoned by us.The door was dislodged, rocking open & close

praising itself as an offertorium               like a painting or a poem, betting against

        the fortunes & eyes of scavengers.When we found the egg the wind gave it our scent

then the mother couldn't want it, couldn't        see beyond its threat,

& since I couldn't trust its blue-speckled innocence,its instinct to veer from otherness,

the want of it filled my hands & I could not want        it, not its wings, not its tiny beak,

not its unlit heat.