Wednesday, June 3, 2009

my topography, a poem

You keep me warm
in the places that have nearly
grown cold,
closed up,
holes filled with shivers,
with soil and salt.

You hold my hand,
blue veins show through transparent,
thin skin,
rivers on a map,
on a hill,
on my palm,
my topography.

You stroke my face,
and wait for lips to warm,
holes to slowly
with sky and trees and earth,
birds trapped in clouds under eyelids,
leaving eggs to hatch under lashes and bangs and freckles.

You wrap tight my shoulders
and allow breath to enter,
mouth to ear,
and fear escapes,
tiny cracks,
letting rivers loose,
flowing fast and frightened,
setting free this wildfire,
this tornado,
this thunderstorm.

This is my topography,
This is the map,
The compass to my heart.


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