Over dinner, one night, it could have been any night
He held life up on the tines of his fork
And he said, “What is the point of life?”
She said, “Don’t point.” Then she said,
“In the beginning there was no point to life.
Everything about life was round.
Round as a breast. Round as a full moon,
A spinning, newly-pressed l.p.
With deep-cut, dust-free grooves.
Then life straightened, taut – a violin string –
And played music, here then gone music,
Songs about life’s possibilities.
Choices were made, life grew a point, blunt,
Like the tip of an index finger, a dog’s nose
Or the cone of a heavily lumbering airbus.
But now, look, the bluntness curling away
And life is now a lethal weapon.
A drill bit, a fishhook, an arrowhead, a cat’s claw.
Tonight you have slipped, down the arrow shaft
And can no longer see the glinting tip
That peels the air back as it plunges.”
He waved the fork again and said, “Your stew.
I always like it just the way you cook it.”
And she replied, “I know, dear. I know.”