On the first day:

The twisting curls of

your blonde, and my

genetics… how?

But the question was

lost in the milky swirl

of your eyes, and

your skin, powdery

smooth against mine.

Love, like something fresh

from frozen, blossomed

and I lost the doubt

in you.

Then the tear, between

us, gone, and truly alone

for the first time ever,

the rusty wheels set themselves

back into cognitive motion.

Punnett, my ever worthy

adversary, comes back to

haunt me: 4 by 4.

Upper, lower, dominant,

recessive. Black, brown,

red, blonde, gold?

Blonde. You should

be red.

Photographs, old as sepia,

greyed and stretched

and I can see you

in him.

And now my heart

lies shattered, but,

strangely not.

That old lie: blood

and bone may not

be all.

I’ll always love you best.