As if she

I feel deeply,

she said,

as if apologizing

for knowing where in the earth

the roots meet

under aspen groves

or the difference

between the periwinkle of dawn

and the shudder of sun mist setting over ocean

as if she shouldn't understand

the nakedness of waking up

in a world that is lit with or without you

that will stare into your eyes

like a cat daring you to fight

and then curl in your lap soft and settled,

that the shape of the oak's branches

over a rock wall two centuries old

reaching reaching reaching

and so full of red

is the same as the cormorant

in its sun salutations,

drying its oily black feathers

and the long streeeeetch of her dog

yawning its entire self into the day

and the pluck of strings the

hum of the highway beyond the woods

the brush of fingers to forearm

and lips to neck, for just a second

as if tears are not turned

to constellations once they're shed

as if

as if

as if

as if the breath she took after,

slow, into her chest, eyes open,

could not be let out until all the

world breathed her out with it,

whispering the vapor off

like a cloudy mandala

above a cup of tea, then

sip.

Christie Flemming