We Never Talk

You say it's time for another talk

and the breaking stone that chokes

our creek with its one and only black

reason for being, the lesson, blocks

my throat to speak of what survives

the plunge; how its catch of the dead

branch and the other debris turns

backward to watch the past slide by.

You pitch that rock high into the wind

and it sticks. I'm going to leave you

this silence, you say. This is the drought.

I'm taking my hands away so you can see

our roots, tangled in laughter, will die.

And I should take away that hard eye

stashed in my sex. But let's just talk

about now, not us. For example, I'm pregnant.