Meghana John
I WILL SOFTEN UNTIL I AM TH EARTH
Somewhere in my head, I recognize I am gasping.
When he sweats, he glistens, but I can feel wet sheets
pool under my back. I arch
like driftwood. I set on fire.
Somewhere above me, I think he says my name.
I twitch. He rubs my back, and I imagine
a sun. My head sways once, and I melt.
I’m a deer. I’m a rabbit. I’m a bear. I am bones.
I cannot be the stain that never comes out if I am also the river
and the stone he washes on.
I could be a garden, a forest, an open blue sky,
or maybe that’s the drool
he wiped off my cheek. When I get misty,
I’ll be a lotus at night with flickers of fireflies
making the surface of a lake buzz.
He makes the surface of my skin buzz.
He watches the windstorm in his bed.
Slowly, I come back into focus.
There he goes again,
picking flowers off my back.
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