One Flesh

 Lying apart now, each in a separate bed, 
He with a book, keeping the light on late, 
She like a girl dreaming of childhood, 
All men elsewhere - it is as if they wait 
Some new event: the book he holds unread, 
Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead.
 

Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion, 
How cool they lie.
 They hardly ever touch, 
Or if they do, it is like a confession 
Of having little feeling - or too much.
 
Chastity faces them, a destination 
For which their whole lives were a preparation.
 

Strangely apart, yet strangely close together, 
Silence between them like a thread to hold 
And not wind in.
 And time itself's a feather 
Touching them gently.
 Do they know they're old, 
These two who are my father and my mother 
Whose fire from which I came, has now grown cold?

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