What Men Carry
by Larry Sorkin
Toes curled over the edge of a colossal
void, eyes closed
tight at first light, lips
pursed, dreams
dissolved in dawn. Were I
more courageous, I’d take on
the deeper questions. Petty
cares are all I can handle.
What is it? The deadline
I missed, a slip
of the tongue slight
jiggering my mind, a progression
of worry that digests
the day? Steeled
like the stain
less knife to love
its task and nothing
else. I look over at Brenda
in the freshened light. Do women
and the young always wake
smiling? What
men carry, burdened, always
close to broken: weight
and gravity.
The briar in the rough
margin of the wood sports
fragile white blossoms, no
thought to seasons, to how
black the berry, pebbled
with seed. My toes are curled
over the void
where I’m afraid to look.