Open up your hands:

will I see lines on your palms
like cracks in dry earth,

or the imprint of curved talons?

The remembrance of high perches
and small, warm-blooded animals?


Open up your throat:

you are subtle, my love,
my lutescent warbler,

but your song I might know
even in this cacophony -
this chorus of wild, joyous


Open up your belly:

will I see round, smooth seeds
or whip-like brittle-stars?

A puff of air and feathers
or just a hint of meadowgrass?

I think you do not know.
I think we will discover together
what it is that nourishes you.


Open up your chest:

will I find words buried
behind your ribs
like a midden,
like a riverbank?

Will I find words like stones,
like gleaming shells
in heavy earth?


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