A lichen has a cyanobiont
And a mycobiont, a blue-green alga and a fungus
Grappling rocky earth or the end of a decaying log.
My wife and I, we too are like that.
Two halves, one more stronger than the other,
Photosynthesizing in her own space and time
And the other, an obese parasite knowing very well
That he is vulnerable of starvation
In the absence of her corps.
And we learned that love was never 50-50
That’s a feminist myth or a cultural hoodwink
It is for us 70-30, when I’m that 30
On bed covers and on the mopped tiled floor
Of our spacey house. And she is my lighthouse
When I’m at my worst – lost at sea, my peduncle that raises
Me from my doldrums, the Xanax on my tongue
For my rustling anxiety, and the fog light for my worsening cataract
And she is the thallus that I grow my mycelia into
From her clit to her lips, caressing every bit of her
For my own convoluted existence.
She swims on me like a little paper boat
Not knowing when I will bud out
Some milk on her fault line, to make a beautiful life.
The symbioses we entangle ourselves to, are
Our redemptions. We are only menial creatures alone.
A baby will be our joint-expedition –
Her maple eyes, my snotty nose and two lips
Each a little different to the other.
And yet, there is always a beautiful 50-50
In boy or girl, little handcuffed strands
Of X with X or X with Y.
And we are a symbiosis of XY and XX.
Man and woman, in a little pact with God
And time, uniting every passing day as carpoolers
And bedfellows. I drive her to the bureau and to bliss,
While she uses GPS to steer me home.
And there’s nothing remotely
As beautiful, as flesh-boggling, as honeying
As coming home – home sweet home,
Entangled all over,
Like two halves of a lichen.

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