When you withhold it,
I want to push
past the soft edge
of these curves —
explore outside
the angle of your eye.

And I couldn’t tell you
what it is that hurts —
head, heart or hip —
only that the bending lines
bring me to this,
sand and dirt.
We dig in,
learning the lie
of old teeth and new.

I give it up
for nothing.
Let him take —
ease past the gate,
a garden full of shadow,
shifting with the progress of light —
lowering my eyes,
I let him.


About Emily

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

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