you said
your poetry is
like the old mexican
love songs my
uncle used to
sing along to
in the kitchen
dancing with his
spoon
i imagined a smaller
you
a you who enjoyed
dancing
a you sitting on
the wood floor
cross legged
not yet the
you who is smoke
and
ash
never in a life
though the search
was long
did she believe
that a mountain
could fall in love
with
a tree
so close were the two
it was if the mountain
was impaled
on her very
tree lover
never did she know
(though songs were sung)
that a fox-faced
winged thing would ask
how long have
you been
a healer
with a blackstrap
molasses
voice
no one explained
that love would
be wild berries
on the vine
diverging
rivers
deep caverns
flourishing
with
trust
poppies
