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Degrees of Separation by Michael S. Adams
published in Volume 2, Issue 3 on May 21, 1995

"As yet I have not found a single terrestrial animal
   which can fertilize itself."
	- Charles Darwin


then she gets up and tells me all she wants is a cigarette
and maybe a cold glass of water and where do I keep the 
damned cups in this place anyway? on the counter next to 
the sink, but to me we'd just had sex and I loved it but she
was so uncomfortable and for all her years more than me
and experience I probably hurt her or embarrassed her or
disgusted her because now she's walking around my 
apartment when just two minutes ago I was inside her and
maybe it wasn't sex at all and we just fucked, and I always 
thought women wanted to cuddle afterwards and men were
the insensitive ones and then why am I sill laying here
breathless while she's more or less in routine just like
she was a hooker not the girl that I've known for almost a
month-

Everything turns backwards 
as she slowly clothes herself,
zipper up, button up,
tucks everything in,
and I think I get the hint
   because I get up to pee
and suddenly I feel
   so cold being naked and put on some
   underwear and a t-shirt that my mom 
   just mailed me from up north.

It's not even past midnight
   and she's halfway through the door,
her features exaggerated by the light
   that the moon and lamps both pour-
Only halfway out the door because she remembers
that she left something behind and this sends her
eyes through my apartment too see
something, skipping over me.

	Tapping like drums or like hard fingernails
	   on polished tables, beats my heart through thick jailhouse rails,
	and some mystery suggests
   	   that maybe evolution is not in the slick pyramids of Giza,
	but in the terraced steps
   	   of the mastabas, or tombs in Mexico, or neither.

	Fighting, crying to be born,
	the Earth was shattered and torn,
	by lightning, rain, and thunder storm-
	in that same mold my life is formed,

	hinting only that maybe the
   	   absence of, say, thunder
	might inhibit our birth 
   	   from water, from under
	the sea where we emerged and began,
	but one ingredient spoiled and then . . . 

What becomes of this Earth, my life?
Like it was never commanded, "Let there be Light!".
Some repression of what would make me mature,
closure - my bitterness as she closes the door.

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