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Yes, I lived below.
I drank water, I ate stones. Storms
arrived from the southwest.
There was no damage, only the sky was as grey
as the sky over Bruegel’s hunting
dogs cresting a bank of snow. Every day, the ocean leapt
forward and back, and I did the same,
in love with a pewter wound—
bicep seared by a grafting knife.
Meanwhile, winter promised gentleness and the house settled into a warmth
that could only come after
a year split by an axe. Rusted
wetlands carried on below an edge
of skin, blue thistle, black rain. Outside
my tiny heart, deer slid
through the larches. |
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