I Am Heavy in Any Arms but Yours

July 13th, 2009

He pushed scars down my thighs

like cars push headlights across the highway floor,

sweeping untouched ground and replacing it with

absence. I slept from then on with every muscle

clenched to the bone, tendons stretched to snapping.

In six years, I met you, with my ribs still showing and a

body widening for the day I'll give birth.

For the way it felt, my legs were bruising—asphalt black

with a trace of deep yellow. I looked down and saw

nothing. I slept from then on with every muscle

clenched to the bone, tendons stretched to snapping.

In two years, you came back to me, with my ribs still showing and a

sense of my place in the world. For the way it felt, my mind was aching—

but I could hardly tell if I was ready. I slept from then on with you:

skin clenched to skin, fingers intertwined.

I pray because God has never been gentle and cry,

because you have.