I asked him down here:
where virgin belts dangle from my thighs
where my sash belt pulls the sky in, knuckles go white, and all without a moan
where leaves turn so quickly, already red with winter
where we wait for deluge, but it never comes
not yet ripe, only vocables can embody
Down here, I can’t pull out of this tune to utter
the cowardice of hand and tongue what I wanted
I can’t tear myself from this heap of blankets; this rocking comfort, my—
self: the only one I allow
and our son, I leave him, like a monster, cooing in the next gorge over
~
I can’t sing over the onrush of falling water, that pounding connect from mouth to base
lick cloudburst, the way I want
Down here, I speak with a tongue of cedar: bark and kindle
the clouds last night, they held back
But like I said, we shouldn’t chant what’s not ours
he sacks himself up for me to unravel
a bag of pears. I give one to him, and it gushes with each pull of skin
~
And still I can’t tear away from these blankets
even when he says he’s ready for downpour:
I offer him my hand to guide me down the gorge
But don’t play my flute for him; I don’t want him to fall in—
with me, like I did. I strum him so thinly, and still he chants
I am left to cramp, my entire body over
~
I bring him down here to let my hair loose, then ask him to put it in a knot
my confidence is worn to warps, a bald fringe
my breath no longer shapes syllables of his name
he says rain and I go beautifully together
what it means to apologize
how I curl my hair even though my wrists ache for him
how my nails chip before the moons push on through
how I cross my legs for him as he blows at rain
his fingers wrap our silence
how I prefer the heavens to rainfall
how for him, I am all of this—as sorry as I am when I say,
The sky is so hollow from child.