The doorway where we sat is cold.
I glance it every day and see
two smiles on our frozen faces,
two little moons.
Rough-handed you,
and I, an empty host,
a lacking void
but only for you to point at
and say “I live here”.
But do I look back towards the south
and turn to a pillar of salt
marking the tepid template of love?
My sick little beast,
I never read the book you gave me,
to braid me into a hungry ghost, suffering
in her cave
a half-cup of pear juice
or a phone call;
to wuther me into ounces
singing you into morsels of the divine,
laying myself over you as frost,
palms pressing into hip-bones
and a bone-yard pelvis,
a hollow of snapped white branches
hardened to a waiting iron den,
but to be finished as your house,
as our home.
Here, on my spine, a blot
of you will perch, and
build paused curves of you in my belly,
and we will be children together, hot and hollow
and utterly safe.
I am your country.
You live here.