I loved you,
In cold and secret rooms,
I learned that a soft, musty smell
or a familiar touch on my lips,
could be home, when I had none.

I learned that the tug of the ocean,
and the tides of city traffic
could move inside me
I let it fill me till it poured out my mouth

I broke, like a china doll,
a gypsy child with bags full of potatoes,
an empty stomach,
raised by the birds
but unable to fly
there was a time when my charred words could warm you

bubbles skimming the surface of the pond
almost intersecting
whose last breathes are these?

and words could fail
and bridges crumble into water
and I thought I saw myself in the dark pools of your eyes

why do my hands still hold these broken bones?
even now, as we are encircled by snow,
drunk heat radiating from us, warming the earth
your voice broke through the air to chill my neck
a strangers voice
your brothers?

and with each new season you return
each morning I wake up entangled with your ghost
hungry new mouth I have learned to feed
with the motions you taught me
with your sour fruit

my children will grow up in fear
and see your eyes peering through the window pane
and waiting for them beneath the bed
with the thirst you never fill
and your terrible lips that never lie or waver
will devour their young legs
and I too am afraid to walk barefoot at night
I smell your breath at every corner