There is a sense of belonging
in wanting to touch the sun in gentle strokes
to smooth it in, acrylic smudge,
valley of yellow on your shoulders-
two proud beacons burning, feeding us with enough light to grow
from the rotting bark that has pulled apart to nothing.
The ends of my hands hold firm the beach rope that has longingly
held together our sleepy boat house
strawberry red cuts, gentle stings
and there is little now except the words that tremble
that rip apart my throat like a tangled mess of phone cord
spilling over berry bruised organs exposed for bird pickings
as the line breaks.
How is it that you slip so silently to garner wood and ill- strung words
when death turns under every stone
unscathed, when the wind slices so neatly at my cheeks
and its been weeks since we’ve seen home-
now nothing more than the fire we blow through our hands
to keep our lungs from collapsing.