for S. and A.
These people are all strangers still. all lovers.
It is this sound of broken that makes me tired. This need for fixing.
your hair, it tangles in knots, but looks just like a river running mountain sides, running all down your spine. It sings small winter songs.
Your backbone is a desert. I looked when you didn’t know I was looking. I have seen small creatures thirst there. I have found unexpected flowers.
I stretch out skin like canvases. This bleeding is to read your secrets. You speak a language I do not recognize. Your skin leaves imprints under my tongue, you have a soldering iron in the veins of your left wrist, you lifted that wrist up above me while I slept in the passenger side, while South Carolina passed by, quiet hills and green trees being born. Unsheathed iron burns into my dreams. Keeps me restless.
I got lost in the desert. The path smelled like bobcat piss or human piss or dry dust making mud in my lungs. I crawled up the caverns of your ribcage, I have thirsted in your vertebrae.
Once, I dreamed of making rope with your long long hair. Braided it like a rope and found ways of staying knotted there and I dreamed you built me a nest of bird hair--we tricked birds into giving over eggs so we ate well in the flood that was early morning. We taught survival in the knots and in the desert. The tall saguaro cacti are hollow, good for nesting birds, taking hundreds of years to grow arms. I put a metal heart in a bird nest there. Its hollow beat rang echoes through all the chambers and passageways. The saguaro cacti grow tall as buildings, have arms long like your hair. They know where all the good desert water flows.
I am scared of the songs. Scared of the deep wells. Scared of heavy ghosts he wears like jackets or rain clouds. I have two feet that work like tree roots. They keep me from moving. They bend inwards into soil, dirt under nails and this sound of broken whispers just like the rustling of branch buds unfurling. I will not open hands towards the sky.
It is this sound of broken that makes me tired. This need for fixing.
your hair, it tangles in knots, but looks just like a river running mountain sides, running all down your spine. It sings small winter songs.
Your backbone is a desert. I looked when you didn’t know I was looking. I have seen small creatures thirst there. I have found unexpected flowers.
I stretch out skin like canvases. This bleeding is to read your secrets. You speak a language I do not recognize. Your skin leaves imprints under my tongue, you have a soldering iron in the veins of your left wrist, you lifted that wrist up above me while I slept in the passenger side, while South Carolina passed by, quiet hills and green trees being born. Unsheathed iron burns into my dreams. Keeps me restless.
I got lost in the desert. The path smelled like bobcat piss or human piss or dry dust making mud in my lungs. I crawled up the caverns of your ribcage, I have thirsted in your vertebrae.
Once, I dreamed of making rope with your long long hair. Braided it like a rope and found ways of staying knotted there and I dreamed you built me a nest of bird hair--we tricked birds into giving over eggs so we ate well in the flood that was early morning. We taught survival in the knots and in the desert. The tall saguaro cacti are hollow, good for nesting birds, taking hundreds of years to grow arms. I put a metal heart in a bird nest there. Its hollow beat rang echoes through all the chambers and passageways. The saguaro cacti grow tall as buildings, have arms long like your hair. They know where all the good desert water flows.
I am scared of the songs. Scared of the deep wells. Scared of heavy ghosts he wears like jackets or rain clouds. I have two feet that work like tree roots. They keep me from moving. They bend inwards into soil, dirt under nails and this sound of broken whispers just like the rustling of branch buds unfurling. I will not open hands towards the sky.
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