By one estimate we each have a 1 in 400 trillion
chance of existing, of this sperm wriggling,
of that egg granting, of those two people meeting
and loving each other, at least for a time.
Of having intricate irises, lobed lungs, scapulae.
Compound my odds with a father fourteen
years into terminal leukemia, a mother nearly
given up on men. Not to mention my wife’s
miraculous birth, her parents’ own unlikely
union. Us pinballing through childhoods,
moving to the same place out of more than
780 cities in this country alone. How I
wiled away seven months of depression in
my brother’s basement, finally out
at the bluegrass venue, waiting by the water
jug, her first now-forgotten words of greeting,
that jolt of the unknown. A turning point
only realized in reverse. Imperceptible
fulcrum. Now, why spend each evening
stirring vegetables, soaping dishes, ferrying
laundry from dryer to sofa, while our beasts
of desire lumber past the streetlights into
the wet flesh of the countryside’s foliage?
Your shocking presence in the living room’s
corner is like dark matter, incontrovertible
and irresistible. Somewhere between planets
of knuckles, knees, stomach, seafoam eyes
is everything you’ve ever thought, said, done,
everything I imagine you will think, say, do.
So teach me of crease and curve and bone,
even as I offer you my own. In the low light
of the bedroom’s lone lamp, lash me to the mast
of your body. Lend me your lithe spine.
Raise your remarkable wrists. Let flesh fall
where it may. Show me how we are
shelterless. Remind me how we are held.
Ask me what the chances are of this.
–
Ben Groner III is the author of the poetry collection Dust Storms May Exist (Madville Publishing), winner of the 2025 Storytrade Book Award for Poetry; the 2025 NYC Big Book Award for Poetry: Journeys, Memory, & the Self; and the 2024 American Fiction Award for Religious Poetry.