After Eden By Rachel Wetzsteon

Somewhere Zeno was smiling, the foul
goblins of paradox were wearing
their fairest clothes that night. My Dinner
with a Chainsaw, the evening could have
been called; and when one too many led
to wise judgements too few, “I’m trying
to break up with you!” he shouted as
stockings and scruples flew; and what was
over wasn’t; the brutal doings
were sweeter than a caress; the thrill
of it happening and the horror
of it being an awful mistake
collided like sweaty bodies in
the dark, disheveled room. So this is
moving on, she reflected after
he left. But what was motion? No straight
bright line but a wind every bit as
stormy as the people it carried
away from safety, through towns that froze
and burned, helping them forward but not
letting them forget for a second
their ceaseless looking for what is lost,
their sad resemblance to the quick and
stubborn arrows that never arrive.