When we aren't Enough
--after Where Once the Waters of your Face,
by Dylan Thomas
Where were you blue skies and timber?
A pastoral myth without Pan to honor
our most gutteral truths--this was our
love before the winter and wrists, carved
memories spilled onto tile. There is no faith
when old stories don't hold up after two
bottles of pinot noir. There is no sunset
after the sweeping of the floor, dust
removed from the cracks, while roaches
move in, covering our tracks. Tell me, Love,
who writes these stories?
Who tells me these lies?
Kerry James Evans