Many Moons In The Same Canoe

A marriage measured in moons and tides.

"A marriage is many moons in the same canoe" — I came across this Indian proverb and it stayed with me, the way it makes a long marriage sound like a single passage. This poem argues with it a little.

Where does time end
between the pages we leave open on kitchen counters
beside unwatered plants,
the widow at the window.
Buddleia overreaching in late summer
and elk drifting at the tree line,
antlers tangled in the undergrowth
before disappearing into shadow.
 
A shot rings out somewhere beyond the ridge.
Then the delayed collapse —
brush scattering, leaves disturbed,
one body entering the stillness.
The world barely pauses. Trucks pass.
The sea worrying the shoreline in long repeating fifths,
horsehair pulling deep oval sounds
through willow and ash.
 
The sour pear — Bartlett, Comice, Anjou —
hangs overripe from its branch,
hardened skin concealing softened flesh.
Fruit flies dance around the ceramic bowl
she bought at Goodwill.
 
You say we live in a microclimate of our own making.
When I wax, you wane.
When you bleed, I shave my beard.
Tidal bound.
The unsightly tenderness
of blood washing past greying pubic hair.