I wasn’t ready. I could deny that I was ready,
that I was black consequence,
late.
I had blind chances,
but sight breaks
like disinfectant.
His quiet minutes blew off the wind.
His face said that he had no
direction;
empty and careless,
and I was a thoughtful child
going East.
We were west on the river together,
he wanted to float
like fire wood, but my
blood was a red earth drink,
fearing love and
death and
everything that
sickens in between.
I wasn’t ready to lay my spine calmly
over salmon and
kill the iron blackness
that tightened me deep inside
the roots of the land.
Life after life I planted sorrowfully.
She murdered me
with lima beans and raw potatoes.
I was in love.
I was in life with her,
the river,
the sky,
the Earth,
and then she cast a shriek against
my roots;
a massacre of my protection.
The sun went down and
a pale-blue winter soul
slid between my thighs,
and now I am her,
and I can never be ready.
