Bury our names deep
quiet earth forget them
graft our bodies within the forests of
names we learn to mouth then
curl our fingers round and
only in winter
when the leaves twist and fall will
we recall our former selves –
lying in soft dark
pulling deeper each year.
So we’ll travel from man to man
named for the one
we walk with
as if we are street names,
named for the landscape
but not for the fact that we walk it
could we be known for the journey?
for voices tightening with age
for the strength bodies gain
for their moon-shedding
for the way we learn to store
tears in trousseau boxes
named for sadness?
for the jasmine browning after rain
named for sighing, as the days
lift from our backs
from bones, softened by the evening light?
