speculumannorum

It has always been like this: I slept in a pack on your belly, wanting

to knit myself into your lobe and herd. I needed to get down into you.

Born I drained our mother’s very teeth. For months my dewy infant head

refused to grow, refused the silver rope of cleaving cells, unending surface area

of other and other. But you: you are the surefoot, knotted to your own

tender oil of trees. I have not given any teeth, sister, only wander.

My stomach never calmed; it marked me with its milk and chew.

Already the arrow blasts against my forehead: I should be going on,

fruitless as I could be unwritten, written out. Each day my mouth opens

on that disunion, a brilliant cleft of air. You must know something

of the same rupture, so where is your face when I turn to it?

At this point I’ve lost the story, am looking for a sister ship

half-buried in someone else’s snow. Still I take on the edges of your lake

as my child oath, shake all that I know into outlines you recognize.

I lean my open neck against yours. The miracle always returns with a hunger.

My last few poetry posts imported with crappy formatting, let's see how this one goes.

Sep. 18th, 2020