a thread from shore to sore shore
my quaking newborn limbs
lying limp in the foamy sand,
pressed into dimples of glassy light.
why would you give me a river all to myself?
why would the channels of water be this, my arms and elbows and calves
crawling, climbing, collapsing
whirling like the stars that pass
in a light-soaked pounding room
on my prince's planet,
you can see forty-two sunsets in a day.
is this what it means to be a forerunner?
their eyes looked twice before,
but they look thrice now.
why would you whisper to me about the river first?
why would you immerse me and then bring their ankles in
for me to find that my arms are sails, come tuck under, all you everyone.
for me to find that this river is every kind of force,
vertical, horizontal, diagonal, every dimension a downpour, an uproar
like the meteor shower within those four colored pillars.
why would you have me there?
"I was there."
everywhere I go, I found you.
every which way I lean with grateful muscles.
you've been so patient in my periphery,
like the man with longing eyes
while kye plots her downfall,
sweeping in with the downpour.
baptized in the torrent.
you're only ever in motion.
you were in the apartment on that scratchy rug.
you were walking the early morning streets with me, holding my sandals.
you kissed me atop my head and whispered in my ear,
palm on my heart, your other hand gently removing backpack straps,
you whispered warm,
I was there.
you're now free.
under the apple tree.
I've always said it, quietly to myself in a small room with a mirror,
in the morning, getting ready to go performing,
white walled and shower curtained,
I've softly nodded, yeah,
wish you were under the apple tree.
but it's okay, I've found you now.
needed you then,
but it's okay, I have you now,
and I can learn not to need certain ways.
no, no, darling --
I was there.
open your eyes and see --
and tell me everything.
I don't want to see you smile.
then?
then.
oh.
wide-eyed now.
a different breath in.
sky above me hammocking.
us.
can we just go on a long walk?
can we --
I mean, can we just talk about it all?
I would love nothing more.
I've got the backpack, you just travel light.
who knows where we'll find ourselves.
I think we'll get somewhat lost, and that will be so fun.
and when we get back to my place,
I'll put on a pot of coffee,
strike a fire in the hearth,
and we'll pull those old books from the shelves,
and we'll dive deep until we sleep,
your head on my lap,
my fingers in your hair,
until your squinting eyes greet the dawn,
and you squeeze my knee to see it coming through curtains.
we're on the other side of that veil now.
remember what I promised.
face to face.
growing up is not the problem.
forgetting is.