Her mark was unmistakable,
like a lightning
scarred tree – in the middle of a dessert.
How'd you get here?
Tattered and weary
like the fake smile
that obviously followed her
from somewhere else.
Unmistakably
not indigenous.
She was tethered to another realm
by unseen codes that
shortened her reach
yet somehow were able to
draw us near.
Or maybe she just fell in
my trap.
I set it years ago,
specifically looking for that smile
and the blossoms inherent.
Now it's here.
And future phylogenies must change.
How we hated you when we knew not your
smile.
How'd you get here, again?
Let's take that
smile to the altar –
nooses, buckets, and all.
Why not let our genes
interact while I lift every rotten
log until I find us a new home,
a new smile,
whatever your mark,
doesn't change our pheromonal
connection.
It doesn't change the taste of your skin
or the twitch in your eyes when
we both see danger.
Nor the nape of your neck
when you push up
off my chest.
No, that mark says only
that you're not from here.
It doesn't say that you don't belong.
This article appears in Apr 8-14, 2009.