My Lover Vows to Follow Me Even After He Leaves Me

apoemaday:

by Anne Barngrover

That winter, I stirred sugar and cream. I cut your hair

            and counted spoons, tamed the river birds
                      into umbrellas and taught the dog to sit

for a piece of apple. I wanted to unmake a fox earth

            into a home. You thanked me a little less
                      every day, never saw my love-scatter

skunking off like shingles. As a child, I played a hiding

           game as if I were the smallest creature,
                      training my eye to spot places where

I’d disappear if I needed to flee. Too late for you

           to track me down. Where would you find
                      me now? In booths, in burrows, an attic,

a woodpile, your pocket, the milk jug, under bridges,

           under porches, under a moss-eaten log?
                      If trust is to hem your promises

into my jacket lining like folded dollars during

           an ice storm, then I have been trusting all my life.
                      I could vanish in a white rain.

I am trying to sluice your words from my clothes,

           sodden with ink. I’ve been meaning to tell you:
                      I cannot comprehend your changing ways—

from balm to shovel, from padlock to light snow.

The moment I look back, I sour and see again

           your lips shaping the words

I will follow you, each syllable tender as teeth.

33 notes
To see the earth as it truly is, small and blue and beautiful in that eternal silence where it floats, is to see ourselves a riders on the earth together, brothers on that bright loveliness in the eternal cold—brothers who know now they are truly brothers.
― Archibald Macleish (via cultureofresistance)

(Source: lucifelle)

396 notes