FROM THAT MOMENT*

lock, stock and barrel – along with thousands

of others, we were joined together over the

Seine – such a cheesy sentimental thing to do.

But somehow it felt portentous, important,

eternal – so even though the wind was howling

crazy like home, arctic-wolf colder-than-cold,

and snow was spitting sideways at us, we knelt

down and slid that sucker hasp through two

bars on the bridge, twisted it tight and clicked

it home – used the key to check for safekeeping.

Is it possible to lock love in place – in Paris?

You know it.

*From Elizabeth Bachinsky’s poem Wild Grass

  from the book Home of Sudden Service.