Strange language:
You always say “blame,”
but it never ends with “me.”

Mélange of names untimely played
during our faceless moments of intimacy,
lacing traces of previous relationships—
If I’m not bothered by the fact
she was fathered by another man,
then why should you be by my not-yet-committed act
of naming her after one of my estranged ladyfriends?

“I’d rather let her die,” I believe,
is a rather extreme reply.

Didn’t I offer to pay,
care for the baby as my own?
It’s silly to argue over a medley of letters,
pretending a certain combination could turn out to be deadly.
For whom?

In a treacherous bed of noises
unfound in any catalog of sounds,
might it be possible for silence to turn and pronounce us
both, man and woman,
guilty of gambling for treasure we’re both sure will pass,
be truly possessed by neither?