The and conjoins disjunctive clauses
in something less than matrimony, yes,
but no more separable than. (Take you and me.)
One famous place the and began was in
“Begin the Beguine,” beginning with
And down by the shore an orchestra’s playing
and continuing on with yet not quite ending at
And even the palms seem to be swaying.

But what do we do when the and begins with us,
we who seem to be forever conjoined,
always with, and yet perhaps all we are with is out?
Out itself would be so much better to be without,
and yet there’s that paradox dogging us
like the next clacketting, decorated cart
in fate’s parade–is it dragged by an ox?
And there we are, swearing to love forever,
And promising never, never to part.

Let us conclude not as we began,
but with the end, especially but not only because
we have seen fit to bring in “the Beguine”
at a point earlier in this text, but because
we now know that each and suggests a certain end,
as does each Beguine. But neither let us let
the and end with us: And now when I hear
people curse the chance that was wasted,
I wonder if we’re prone to fuss.

Aaron Belz has published two collections of poems, The Bird Hoverer (BlazeVOX, 2007) and Lovely, Raspberry (Persea, 2010). (A third, as yet untitled, is forthcoming from Persea.)

*Photo courtesy of B Tal.

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