And All That She Was Is Everything I Am

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In her house of salt she weeps an ocean. Rooms flood and flow with her tide. Her walls stretch and buckle. Skin sighs in the slipping. In the sliding. Hands.

In slow rooms her body moves, a saw. Moves a saw screaming. Moves a saw singing. A saw through me, hands under my skin, pushing in the beneath. The great undertow of flesh, hot with the pulsing.

Our bodies salt in her swelling tide. And she bows, she bends, she twists into coils. She blinks. Long years blinking slow, and a smile wide as waves crashing on sand.

I am glass. I am flesh compressed. I am glass.

Her forest of swaying arms, of grass rising towards a red arc of sky. This is her dawn of hymns, and her fingers grasp tender branches, climbing, bloody feet now on crystal bodies.

Our sharp edges. Our spiny moments.

We drown in her gossamer field. Her hands in the holding. We sharpen our teeth on crystal trees and look to blossoming bruised light. A horizon of arcing.