When we were young in another life all snarling
our hair. We: a private language. We ate
each other’s hands. Us a danger that we
shared. I’ve hard-loved you leaning
into you with all my weight, loved like a teething
moon til teeth came cracking down, showering
my ankles. I loved/you pushed/small cage
built out of it. The word I kept was patient.
The smell of earth-dragged oak. Air holding
our long particles. We piled thing on top of thing
fingers touching under sand. Hands togethering
we built, but couldn’t salivate. I had your left
knee, maybe eyelash as my own.
Apparently I can grow wings. Sometimes
the letting go is slow and sudden, both.
After years of wrangling love’s shadow
to the ground, we realize our hands
are empty, bodies bruised but floating, Water
Water, Oh you’ve drowned me, scoured me.
Now I am clean. The love I once wore heavy
sails, now unaffixed to me. I’ve longed
so hard it snapped my body
into halves. So hard I turned
through myself like wind washing a veil.
All these years I thought that I was
loving you, but I was mourning you
and now it’s done. I lay down the work, step
to the left. I look at it there.
It takes a breath.
Then, I take a breath.
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