it opens on the heart;
or on the inner ear, the fluid
inequal and dizzying,
pulse missing a beat every few moments;
on the feather-press of burning
above-behind his eyes,
or maybe tired.
the first time that he breathed in
winter, only three inches of snow,
he saw his puff of breath
make fog of the air.
nose chapped,
he can't stop licking his lips
to keep them half-wet
where they crack.
he doesnt remember last winter,
though he can imagine it,
imagine hot chocolate with his sisters,
ceramic warming fingers after coming back inside.
he doesn't remember, but he can try
to make the memory.
i cant tell if watching you--
walking alongside you--
was a dream i had
a real long time ago
a real long time ago
or just a tv show i watched.
looking up through the branches of trees
while i wait for you to unlock the door.
feels like sleeping now.
she said to me, "i love you,"
in that tired, scared way.
couldnt look up from the dead piece of grass id pinched between my fingers.
i open to the heart, like i can
somehow fit mine tight between my back teeth,
how it hurts me all the time.
it starts at the heart and ends somewhere
behind the liver, i guess.
.
