|I am stripped. I am pinned. A butterfly on a corkboard. A brave daughter, a drought.
Remind me next time I use the word “never.” Assume I know what it means. Acquiesce to my presence of mind, my longing, my laughter.
I predicted the day you’d beat the birds to their nest, lay eggs in it, wait till the crooked dawn wrote its name on the first shell. You hover over me, mistake my bones for driftwood and my hair for sand.
And I know your body burns, becomes blue from the turning of the earth. Its subtle sorrows. Our hands and tongues surprise the sky in their miniscule attempts at flight. We offer little, nothing. Only our poor posture, our frost-bitten knees onto which we often fall without beauty, without grace. Our heart, a yoke for the soul. A bouquet for bees.
Do I still have the right to enjoy your love while I’m plotting escape?
Freedom hinges on surrender, on silence. I labor over this invocation. I threaten myself with myself. I see what the eyes have resisted seeing. It is you, it is you, it is no one.