Regarding this life, I didn't plan ahead
if that's what you're thinking.
It just happened. When my parents took me
home from the hospital, I couldn't think
of any other place I needed to be.
So I stayed.
I do accept by this that I'm who I am.
I don't wish to pretend otherwise.
My face suits me. So does my body.
I can't imagine my life and them
ever living apart.
But there's no such thing as choice
in the color for my eyes, the straightness
of my hair, the mouth, the nose, the ears.
They're what I was provided with.
There was no other set hanging around.
They have scientific names for it —
genes, RNA, DNA, but to me
that's all poppycock. I am a certain
combination of molecules made manifest
by repetition. And here I am, at the point
of asking you if you would like to take on
the rank improbability of my existence
and merge it, to a certain extent,
into the mere coincidence that is
your own unchangeable actuality.
What I mean to say is,
will you marry me?
In other words,
should we add our togetherness
to this series of long done deals?
_______________________________________________________
A Simple Question
John Grey
John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident who recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly, and Lost Pilots. The latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert”, and “Memory Outside the Head”, are available through Amazon. Work is upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa, and Doubly Mad.
