He turns to her in the dusktime
The light hitting his face
In a way that the sun refuses to set
Almost like saying
“I want to look at you more”

There is a mother waiting
Down the hall
For her cue to act upon instinct
And when the light
Is the only thing heard from that room
She moves

There is a father
Who sits on a sofa of misunderstanding
And on top of the coffee table
There is a scandalous book
Of Feng Shui
And there is nothing more ironic

There is a sister
Who calls the girl naïve
For loving someone so strange
And when they speak, she tells
And when they talk, she jokes
And today there is a lesson

The girl asks,
“What is the lesson in marijuana smoke,
first kisses,
and choking up?”

And the sister shushes her
Talk, talk, talk
Listen to the hum
of the human muscle clinging

back to poems