It has always been like this: I slept
in a pack on your belly, wanting
to knit myself into your lobe and herd.
I needed to get down into you.
Born I drained our mother’s very teeth.
For months my dewy infant head
refused to grow, refused the silver rope
of cleaving cells, unending surface area
of other and other. But you: you are
the surefoot, knotted to your own
tender oil of trees. I have not
given any teeth, sister, only wander.
My stomach never calmed;
it marked me with its milk and chew.
Already the arrow blasts against
my forehead: I should be going on,
fruitless as I could be unwritten,
written out. Each day my mouth opens
on that disunion, a brilliant cleft of air.
You must know something
of the same rupture, so where is
your face when I turn to it?
At this point I’ve lost the story,
am looking for a sister ship
half-buried in someone else’s snow.
Still I take on the edges of your lake
as my child oath, shake all that I know
into outlines you recognize.
I lean my open neck against yours.
The miracle always returns with a hunger.