Lying apart now, each in a separate bed, <br />He with a book, keeping the light on late, <br />She like a girl dreaming of childhood, <br />All men elsewhere - it is as if they wait <br />Some new event: the book he holds unread, <br />Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead. <br /> <br />Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion, <br />How cool they lie. They hardly ever touch, <br />Or if they do it is like a confession <br />Of having little feeling - or too much. <br />Chastity faces them, a destination <br />For which their whole lives were a preparation. <br /> <br />Strangely apart, yet strangely close together, <br />Silence between them like a thread to hold <br />And not wind in. And time itself's a feather <br />Touching them gently. Do they know they're old, <br />These two who are my father and my mother <br />Whose fire from which I came, has now grown cold?<br /><br />Elizabeth Jennings<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/one-flesh/
