Old Bodies

Chest press together.
Legs shift, find space.

My hand follows an old path— 
the groove of his back—from
shoulder to sweet curve below,
marked with the day’s scent.

I think of what I will become 
later in a box tucked in white-branched clay.

Each day I lift my face
to sun, carry its heat with me.

Like the spruce tree, I bear the breeze.
Like the tree, the wind batters me.

The world will etch me in ink,
but that’s a vain thought. It knows
nothing of me. I am no more than
pebbles or a rain-flecked stream.

In our bed there are no keys, 
no locks, no doors, only

the heat we generate, the wet tongued
moments that carry us through
bruised and yearning days.

Published in Rogue Agent September 2022