From the beginning
the poems began.
All good things lay there.
Yet no one wants to go home.
To what end?
We all return to the master.
But my problem is His mercy
Because my life breathes in
The in-between.
The flavor between the drink
The silence when my heart’s not beating
The tingle between the touch
Life is not the sleeping or the escatcy.
It is the in-between
The rush between release
The water gushes down my throat
Pause.
Before I breathe.
Is the beauty in anticipation
Exhilaration
Orgasm titillation
Creation
That’s only a millisecond
Awoken in-between
The dishes
The make-your-bed
The shoes from under the couch
Arouse the in-between
Long enough to see
Flirt below occasion
Twitch beneath my gut
Long enough to feel
That I don’t live there
Excitement is
Not a reason
Satisfaction is
Not a season
When I’m made to hold my breath
For infinite beats
While ticking in-between
Tiny pleasure
Revealed, reviled
To parse the in-between
To remember this is mercy
Until the end, when poems will stop.
No more betweens will stave the pain
The lightening pleasures flash condemned
When I won’t live there
Anymore.
Cindy Koch 