body farms and bridges
I made plans on the edges of bridges.
You chose Pennsylvania body farms for your final rest.
I built a crystalline layer to block out the world.
You sought to lie down in front of a truck.
I hid the knives in the curtain hem and hid the sheath in the laundry.
You tied me down with dental floss to keep my bones from being stolen.
You were a manuscript stolen, bitter-spilled,
and I was the pin that claimed your flyaway tent, bird ready in my chest,
to chase after your flight. My cells were full of helium,
caught in a net of your shadow chest,
the tangle of your hand along my back.
Now I write cursive, I carve landscapes
to alter that trajectory once well-planned,
one micro-movement of the compass at a time,
no longer fixated on any particular star
but only the emptiness in-between.