You permit my palms against your neck,
swallow my lust for the taste
of the pulse of all creation.
We are the birth and death
of nations
bending forward, falling back
into the midst of each other’s
dawning.
Witnesses.
They say the trees, when threaded close together
for miles and miles
bring to bear a spirit,
a presence
of their own
kind,
a knowing long buried
rises for a time.
There are no words for the sight of her silence,
there are no limbs in the halls of her dreams.
We are diamond claws at the back
of a dying thing.
Pull your veils down over me
the moon is pale
and cold but she
moves between us;
when we stand this close
and breathe
I feel it.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 