I once told you that I am an ocean,
swirling and pulling and pushing and straining
at the seams of this earth.

I am a cycle continually looping and falling back on myself,
discovering new cracks and fissures along the way.
I am seated in the space between inhale
and exhale,
deep in that core of being/not being
where your mind goes when it rests.
I am the dark gully under your tongue
where the words hide,
dragging your tongue into silence.

I once read the most beautiful poem.
It spoke to me in silver whistles,
asking me if I could untie
those knots and swing free.

And I drove until the sun
was a fat ball of orange and the river golden
and the tobacco and cotton fields seemed soft
beds of ripe fruit
and I sang your name to the sky,
giving it a new nature.

But then you spoke
moist words into my thighs,
used that soft hidden flesh
to absorb shock and guilt,
allowed my hair to grow as free
as my desire...

You ate persimmons and spit the seeds
into barren ground.
I looped around on myself,
I strained and pushed until I burst at the seams
and sent silver and gold whistles
into November air.

I collected those seeds and your name,
buried them beneath snap dragons
and copper pennies.

They still rest there.


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