I awoke this morning with a
The result of
and sadness pours in,
inundating the rhizomatous cracks,
Inflaming long forgotten wounds
with new traumas.
It settled in with such an
it told me I betrayed myself.
as my stillness turns to ice,
and I retreat to the fortress from which I survey,
I thank you for
the spark and kindling of the sun,
but it was
our potential for a
that lured me out
I lie awake in the dark,
My eyes expressing warm silk ribbons of tears.
I stroke your hair: long, coarse, unkempt.
A veritable nest of the day’s activities
And of the day before
And of every other day before this one.
I scratch your scalp gently, lovingly
And I am not surprised that even in your sleep
You are capable of filling the most miniscule of voids:
Beneath my fingernails is the purest of grime.
A concoction of dirt and dried skin
Saturated in sweat and sunlight.
I pull you closer to me,
Careful not to pull you back into me.
I can smell your hair now,
It’s sour, earthy—like the way it smelled
After playing in the rain that summer evening.
while I’m cleaning my own body,
Washing and braiding my own hair,
Cleaning your skin,
Washing and braiding your hair
Will be my intention.