In the Boughs
The scent of deep woods
always
lingered
around you, following you
in percolated notes of sweat,
mixed with loam and sweet pine,
as a turnstile covered
in new, luxurious growth.
Watching you was like grasping at the wind,
tasting the bite of her chill
that shook me off
as she moved you above me,
in tree limbs of slow motion.
Traveling through your solidity,
that formation
of foreign stability that I balanced on
precariously
in my restless spinning;
but what I most craved
was reclamation of that space
beneath your skin. To be cocooned
in the cedar chest
of your ribs
was a heaven I was determined
to find.
To strum on them gently,
as a harp’s lullaby blowing
on the breeze, studying
algorithms of your breath
to convince myself
you existed. Where I could beat away
with furious little fists
that landed
within the sanctuary of your kindness,
soothing away my pain
while each season changed, and
I got to know where your bark
was movable. You listened
while I recounted
every bird name I learned
since you reminded me
that I already knew
what peace was. Where I slept
through ’til morning
in that hammock of your arms, rocking
to suspended seconds, counting
every way
a heart could be
forever taken.
