IN PRAISE OF THE NIGHTS HER THIGHS FLAME
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I woke up wanting. To become leaves held in hands. Not just to lie in the soil but to become it: a place of life, growth, held in the hand of the one who takes me behind her father’s barn at night, her warm neck the taste of sweat. Dirt under her fingernails and mine. The train along the tracks an urgent metronome. Much like the rhythm of her voice: you’re the winter wheat I don’t want to tame. My mouth a so-called river. My greedy hands. So many nights behind the barn, nights racing down the rows of crops, hands clasped, trying to outrun daylight. |