Origin Myths

how could i even begin to write you love poems?
to say but a single word would eclipse the boundless others that describe your love,
to say them all would be to obscure the infinite unspeakable ways
you move me
and rustle in my bones,
as miraculous as an onion
unpeeling itself in the field
to feel the wind on its nakedness.

to be loved by you is to live under a summer sun,
even as the leaves uncouple from the arms
that held them,
and Indian summer abandons us
to the season of shadows,
under you still, i burn.
leaving you each morning is like that,
to part from the source that lends me life
to deny the sugars that you pump through my veins
and scatter myself to the wind,
to nourish the earth
as you think i do.
sometimes i worry i will lose myself in dispersal,
but always you catch my hem
and pull me back
to be ground again under your pestle
making me fresh again to the world
I might almost have forgotten how to love.
medicine man.
buffalo man. let’s rebuild the herd.

when i wake with you i feel the rock of the sea,
rhythm has returned to the movement of the earth
and it quickens my feet as sure as my heart.
to be loved by you is to dance like the plague of 1518
but instead of prescribed bleeding,
for once, they built a dancehall.

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