I say I will tell you the rest -
the rest - as if it had been sleeping, calmly,
settled down and tucked in,
as black bears with heavy heads, their bodies plump with wild berries,
waiting for winter's end to saunter out of that deep slumber
and descend once more upon Boreal forests.
I say I will tell you the rest as if the remainder of the story,
the falling actions, happened leisurely over a Sunday brunch,
with hands lazily sinking biscotti into cappucino between
turning the pages of the morning news.
I would like to tell you the rest of the story
as though it happened in a red canoe tethered to the dock,
bobbing up and down with the waves in the pink light of
the sun setting behind the foothills.
But the rest of the story is less like pulling the sheets
underneath your feet and up around your shoulders in a down embrace,
and more like a trout thrashing in the hands that are trying to rip the hook from it's mouth
and slice open it's belly to remove the organs and the eggs.