I am Holding this –
tiny blue flame for you.
Little mounds of ash
collecting in the lines that would determine my disintegration.
I dream as if you will remember the symbols I keep watch for
and sift through my days with me:
My little ones biting into tulip stems and imitating a tango.
My mother raking rocks from the garden in our oven.
You, expanding like a sponge in my heart.
We lose things if we pretend:
sewing needles disappear
into the bellies of stuffed bears
and we find them three years later in an embrace
- you will never be my pincushion.
Lately we course and counter like a split river vein.
I’ve learned to fold (my hands) in front of you
and they balance like boulders above a canyon.
so that you may continue and etch
Through immovable cores.