Hold

The blue birds make themselves

a storm as you blow along

the prairie in your blood-drenched linen.

Like a little girl, I loved someone else

before my own name. I love the doubleness

of tenderness. You teach me discipline,

with your sounds like snowflakes,

curled at my feet in your flaking

cocoon. At night, you visit

the first forest we planted,

smelling of onions. Are you

up to something? Are you doing something

dirty? Are those your eyes?

I will keep quiet before your

dirty eyes. We make ourselves

a storm, here in this little room.

In the bed of leaves, your mind blows up

to the sky. The ice shapes will move out

across the sill like a world

of small breaths, and the grasses will strip

down to needles. “We are all looking

for something,” you say, pulling me closer.

“Does this basement have a building?”

Cold cold lips. We held ourselves

still. When the world came

apart one year, we planted a forest.