Is it possible to write the exact point of conception –
its certain instant, sting, precision
taking place, taking its place –
a flint-dark, fish-shaped
arrow lodged right
there?

Do you, too, feel this point
balloon and fasten?

If I weren't one bit shy and all of me were visible,
if I could lean against you without taking you
for granted, since the numbers tell us we can't last,
and even the hair of our bodies holds us apart,
would you recognize whatever this is I'm trying to give you?

How far beyond my grasp
love's gone, like teenaged sons,
angular bodies, your
red hair, my blond. All I can name
of our life together
blurs past words, goes on.

Muriel Nelson