Chana Bloch


The future
passed through me like light
through a prism, foot-traffic  
over a bridge: two children, two 
freestanding sons.  
I thought I was choosing.  
Light spilled through the window, 
indifferent. I thought you were
choosing me. The mole on  
my shoulder your earlobes our  
naked teeth in their lust 
to outlive us  
drove us together. The past flooded me
in its milky rush to become
forever. The past in its
waste. The angel spoke 
in fire and tongues, imperturbable,
leaving me
spent on the sheets, a dazed
hand on a belly.