I hugged my wee daughter and this poem came out…

The soft-firm clasp
of flesh on flesh
(bones thunked
into each other
beneath those
sheaths)
with the warm force
of willed love
is a touch
of ontic bedrock,
below which
no greater
or more
fundamental
fundament
obtains
—your own heart
preaches this
truth to you
in sermonic
eloquence I
cannot match.
And that self-same
heart buries
its own truth
like disowned bones
and disembowels
all diggers
with the slick-flicked
fangs of the
slip—
until you clasp
again and gasp
recognition and
shove it down
once more
in spin-glitch agony,
a wrestle-wretch
sucked out
until
sucked in
despite your best
repressions
or handed over
to bone-wearied
bone-buried
dog-day masters
exacting last pennies
ever after.
(One foot in
that down-hole
you feel
a bloody hand,
raked by your own
teeth, curl fingers
in your scruff
and tug up—
do you release?)
Real and everlasting
fangs at last
are ready to rip you
true and re-skin
the soft-firm clasp
of flesh on flesh
(bones sang
into each other
beneath those
sleeves)
with the fierce warmth
of willed love.

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