I was dreaming of foxgloves and the beetle’s chant,
Of dawn breaking through the canopy,
Of shivers of beech and cherry, juniper, fir
when you tore me from my verdant slumber,
Whirlwind like.
Deep into my bowel you plunge this carnage.
Fillets of cod, value pack
Crumbles of feta, six ounces
A can of chickpeas, non-organic
Hummus, store brand, the cheap one
Packs of frozen dinners for one
A bottle of that ashy wine
for no one.
Between aisles of ice-cream you stalk
furtive, totting, pockets thin, plodding
at last into a salmonberry sun.
Your fists were clenched.
Like that willful shred of me
that found itself to sea and
lodged whales and wrung death to turtles before
sinking to the deep.
And your peacock shoulders,
raised promontories
to break the hazy onslaught of their gaze,
to tame the fury of your memories.
Stone frames were not built
to brook your rancor.
But on my skin once etched songs
for all the heartaches of the world.
Now with your hollowness folded,
pressed into mine. Tell me,
Are you still the wistful one?
#00117F 