I remember you tracing my palm lines like tree rings to measure
all my years, the weeks and months that wove together
to make up “me being alive.” How your body trembled
like a wrong note played by the most broken violin
when I said life was the opposite of where I wanted to be.
But this is what I know: we are both breathing out of lungs
filled with scar tissue and moon craters that will always be empty.
I am miles of self-inflicted birthmarks and you are acres
of aching. But I am tired of wearing thimbles on my fingers
just so I can rip myself apart and watch you try to sew me back together.
We are trying too hard to be one another’s life rafts
when we both end up sinking in even the best weather.
Years ago, my mother told me the story of Isaac Newton
and how he thought of the Universal Law of Gravitation
when an apple fell from the tree he was sitting under
and hit him on the head.
And I know that this may be a myth
but the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree for us.
We are both unsaveable but trying to save one another,
and there’s no one else I’d rather drown with.
Trying to Save Someone When You Are Unsaveable Too
She took his hand
so he brought her to his country:
‘See it is dry’: and
it was a light field, water,
a tree loud as water
in that wind.
— In your country
there is a light field, water.
Your body is in this wind,
I am in your mouth, your hand.
The angels we made in the snow
are blown and the shapes at the snow’s edge
are only themselves again
and we our taller selves
smoke between the house and the woods’ edge,
dying to come in or have snow:
— Does he love her? She loves,
he loves, everyone here loves longing.