Because

 

Because

 

Because nobody tells us how

to do it or can to loose the still sticky sinew

we pinch into the print of our fingers

its grip insisting a rhythmic kinship

with the distant umbilical cut from us some

seventy plus forevers ago its dust                     it’s dust

as rises up the thermal pull of her

departure and by some intimacy of design

is aligned to the aquatic quality of her breath

to manifest there until renovated to snow

that as we walk toward our future alone of her

 

 

it falls on us our clavicle our exposed throat

so subtle a touch as to make us part

our lips so we can how long have we held it

 

 

 

 

breathe again