These assessments
Are honest,
But the questions
They raise
Are dry wood
In a storm.

Of late,
He brings the new,
Sets small fires,
Shows me the structure
Before it finds form.

I play the lucky
Witness —
Burning within
The weight of worship —
And seek out
These most reachable points.

Test my footing
And survey
Neglected landscapes —
Beds of cold comfort,
Easily made
And waiting for kindling.

Here I cannot
Release his soft gaze.

Here there is no
Kissing of hips.

Here dangerous questions

What muse shares
Your thought-dream?
How do you make peace
With vulnerability?
Can you find the way
To reciprocal?
And how much wood
Is left to burn?


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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