I believe to write the story you need to know the people
and who they love. Have to touch the hand
of the child at the table. In the morning, try to braid her
long long hair. A million mornings later, she
is the woman in oversized sweaters.
Stirring bitter tea in sunlight, ceramic and golden.
Cereal before the milk is poured. Still-life.
His body folds her in the night.
She loves his jaw, his clavicle, his long smooth spine.
Becomes his favourite project, all holes to fill.
Still she slips by him in the dark.
Inside sleeping skin the skeleton waits, alert.
Fingers around a wreck feel a rush of pulse,
vein cords shifting. His arms search
for wholeness, find wrists. She feels gone.
When she weeps he lifts her into his lifting wings.
When he leaves she flutters past his wandering paths. She
never stops looking. He always comes back. Longs for her.
Bon courage, they vow, strong heart-ing. Reasons to stay.
I believe you have to know this before you can know her.
Have to know the movement of each bone in a body, the places
they connect, the old fracture and cast signed by 15
embarrassed friends; uneven mending, knitting back together.
Have to know, as she knows, that love learns by leaving,
deciding to leave, or stay. Listening wind weaves a lullabye.
Halves don't unclasp neatly; in a locked locket two small faces
always whisper wishes into the dark, disappearing like tread
into the snow, sending foreign blessings far away.
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