FRAYED ANKLES

Now we escape . . .
and in the going
we move a heavy purpose to its final resting place
somewhere
where finality is an ambitious dream
relying solely on broken dependencies and
stick figure hangmen
to take the guesswork out of each step
as we syphon what we have left of our spirit
to deliver our limbs the home they deserve –
where brown is chocolate
and not hand-me-down anger;
where happy is default
and not the result of
having made it beyond –
although making it beyond
in our already frayed ankles
is our easiest flight together . . .
a separate kind of silence
pre-destined to join us at last
through the comfort of our very leaving