there is some quality
of light
that distinguishes us,
we in our place

don’t go.
I am still filled,
and have something
to say.

Looking for you,
I am afraid
to look at you —
and know you know
all the ways
I have hidden.

High on the branch,
you see everything
under snow.
And I would have you sit
a moment longer,
poised upon the tension
between hunter and hunted.

This cold rock in my throat
tastes of everything
we’ve yet to say.
And my powers are wasted
on this ring.
Only the birds
to redeem us.
Even the kindest intentions
are blind to affliction —
the promise of pain to come.

Sunshadow casts the judgment,
sets the task:
to build two walls
of reason —
to leave,
to stay —
and suspend myself
in the balance
like a hawk riding a thermal,
enduring all the repercussions
of a busy-dreaming mind.

But these are my ways.
And these are my woods.
And though I am formed
for adaptation,
I still can’t change
at will.


About Emily

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

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