When fishing we were told, never unhook
the trout at the lip.
It might thrash up stream, but only to die.
Down the road they were splitting the atom
in a giant doughnut.
If it cracked, then meaning would spawn,
and spread, and spread.
Anything we wanted to say we couldn’t say straight,
for we lived in Eden, the country of nouns.
We named the lonesome animals two by two
as they filed up the gangplank to our world.
Two dogs, two babies, two cats, two hearts.
We said cow and bitch, which was proper.
Abroad we camped in the valleys of buried kings.
The local animals were cleverer than ours.
They unyoked themselves despite the vigilance
of peasants, they smashed through gates
and ran up mountains, goat-bells ringing
beyond a ridge.
Fences are looser in foreign lands.
We wanted to help, we meant no ill.
We searched for the tell-tale tear in the brambles,
a cloven print in the mud.
Luckily nobody accused us of negligence.
Go in peace, they said, which might have meant
placid, book upside down on a snoozing chest,
or possibly death on a hot afternoon,
the kind for which you wouldn’t wish
to prepare, for it’s easier to be taken.
body and soul, when you’re looking away.
Split Infinitives can be found at at The Hooghly Review, Issue 3: https://www.thehooghlyreview.com/
