late in new hampshire,

leah teaches me to swim.

“my house is your home—”

the light pouring in,

the window and its sunbeams:

humble, open hand.

breakfast pots clatter,

curly hair in my omelet,

a snort, laugh, and smile.

a pale sky belies

a hot and heavy sunlight

that warms like a song.

a pen, an open

desk, and my palms tell me what

absence is made of; 

poetry is kind

to me when other words fail.

I don’t speak pretty—

the simple prose that

my hand writes out with such ease

is my loved anchor.

sometimes I smell you

next to me. mossy, musky

misery. Lady—

your silk strands tickle

my neck in silver twilight—

but it’s a soft dream. 

I shake that beast off

my crown. margaret scampers,

tail down in defeat.

that dog naps with me:

pawprint on my lower leg,

heartbeat next to mine.

the shower gives light.

the shampoo, like quantum foam,

tessellates my hair.

the shower stream drips

down my neck like saltwater

sweat. I’m swimming now.

from this rocky shore 

to smooth edges beyond us—

a long river runs.

a simple letter,

from my heart to yours, outlines

the way the crow flies.

don’t ask me if I 

shall ever forget you. I

am sky; you are bird.