by Haley Lasché
It wouldn’t matter except for the iron in our blood,
that screw lacing into bolt
corroding two into one.
Rust strips the mechanism of separation
down to a single process: hand pulling from hand, leg
pulling from the back of knee.
We attempt to galvanize,
keep our rust-smacking separate from each other, and yet
I want you when I’m busy.
And, I want you when I’m bored.
The key is to want not need,
to lock the shape of our mutual erosion
in the strongest position,
to weather the effects of winter storm.
I hear the tide against the mountain.
I hear your confidential thoughts.
You call our secret family name
even when we sleep apart.
Haley Lasché has her MFA from Hamline University. Her poems and creative nonfiction have appeared in many lit mags, Web sites and anthologies such as The Crab Creek Review, Poemeleon, Dossier Journal and Not a Muse. In addition to being a writer, she is a college instructor, a post-modern dancer and a punk-rock fashion model.