When at the gallery

clenching my hands

I stand before

the dangle of gibbons

inked on the scroll

linked hand to pocket-

sized hand, tiers of arms

stretched nearly to strings,

and see their moon-head babies

cling to their backs, I fail

to notice the lowest

gibbon in the dangle reaching

her black-tipped fingers

towards the river

to scoop the orb which,

running through her fingers,

will kink and fray

like sophistry, like paint

marbleizing in an agitated tray—

metaphor, of course, for

the illusory nature

of all things—and so miss

the whole story.

                    And when,

at the zoo, under miles of blue,

I intend to describe

the gibbon’s howl (a siren,

a hoot, a yodel, a bell)

I fail to notice her body

describes in arabesques

as it careens some theories

of freedom.

                And when,

dredging through boxes

I lugged to my new life

mostly to discard, I uncover

the plastic monkey, red and hard

with stiff arms conversely curved

that she might link up with her fellows,

the dust I blow off her is all,

I swear, that fills my eyes

with tears, for it’s with

little kindness

that I recall how we failed

to discuss our shock

at how you, drunk, behaved—

wife belittling husband,

his looks and work,

husband bullying wife till

she grew sour and small—

or then again, how we acted—

for the talk and meals

were superb, we reached

for platters of greens

and carbs, spooning to

our mouths chocolate

so dark and rich it dried

as it oiled our tongues

hungry always for meat

and more wine, whereupon

touching elbows we howled

again and again at your table

always charmingly decorated

by your baleful daughter who

once in a fit of generosity

fashioned ours a lavalliere

out of her barrel-of-monkeys toy,

and around whose neck

you confessed you once

put your hands in anger

but didn’t squeeze.