where do you me come from?,
i ask the poem boiling inside me,
a blossom,
a tea,
gnarled and warm.

i will go down to the river
to lay, in place,
my love poem,
alongside all the others.

every person
is alloted 20 love poems in their life,
20 places at the river.
not so neat, they sprout and gape
open
sometimes,
offer flowering hands,
up to the stars,
dirty and scarred.

in an open space, my own,
i will kneel and my press my mouth into the earth
to make the shape of her.
i love the ritual of it.
when i am done, the clay there will smell of her,
translucent like her skin.

poem, you were born
here,
a wet ember buried in my blood.
poem, you came of age inside my body.
poem, you left me,
left my mouth
when the first eyes knew me--
knew that i was not a girl.
poem, you cut my hair along your blade
and gave me my exhaustion.

but now that i have found the words for you, i lay you down to rest here,
in the river mud,

breathing deeply,

grateful i have 13 left to go.

i could sink softly between,
Between our bodies.
Between your words.

i am grateful for your pauses and your silences.
i am grateful for the moments we do not touch.

I could rest there, i think.
i would cry, curled, on the forest floor.
i would burrow deep within the earth,
and maybe you would find me there,
while digging up old jars of marrowed leaves.
I, too, would be marrowed
like ginger root,
clear & sharp.

and we would skim the surface of each other's skin,
wandering, like bent seeds,
into each other's hair,
drifting like rain clouds
like birds
underground.