But I never do.
Marriages, voyages, the ocean.
It’s cold, vast, stinks of fish.
You can feel the briny chill exhaling from it
the way you can feel the warmth of a person’s mouth
before you kiss them,
a puff of garlic or coffee, a whiff of yeasty beer,
like the little breath that escapes the opened oven,
and from that moment, a whole life,
trips to the grocery store, shared mortgage,
weeds, music, brushing teeth at night,
fighting for space in front of the one bathroom mirror.
Late-afternoon sun plummets into the West,
rises just as quickly, turns
from streaking dawn clouds
to floods and floods of light,
a tsunami of gold.
You can say stealing shadows,
you can say gradual thaw,
or drip, drip, drip,
but the one chosen sperm doesn’t hesitate
when faced with the looming
moonrise of egg,
it just darts right in
as if it belonged there,
leaving tail, fins, and animal caution behind.