Tiresias

This winter he walks with his hands
draped while hers tightly clutch old
exams and last year's worn school
guide to student success

tells her why to plan and how to
focus on the tasks to take
while he tells her to relax more,
or she'll drive herself down, to drink
out of seeming necessity
instead of his mere grinning want.


Since snow fell they've been broken
from the earth, their feet touching
nothing but cold cement, floor,
while woods are untouched and still

in sight he said he went in them
once to see if she thought him steeled
and even though she gripped him tight
it might as well have been a shrug
for the summers she spent in trees
while he threw stones from parent's porch.


Slow steps kick up sand and salt
dried up, already fallen
just memories of her tears
old enough for forgetting

he won't ever understand her
pain runs as deeply as it does
when she remembers her mother,
how she wanted a crisp apron
in the house more than a surgeon
no matter how fine in the cut.


All her text books use "he" too
much to like, so there are days
when she thinks its all done
to make sure she understands

that they all see her dressed in lace
when they kiss good-bye there again
by library she now enters
daily, doing it eagerly,
straining his lips as she struggles
to pull something out of him instead.