A man drew a map of the earth
and showed me how mountains are made:
fold and thrust, how plates collide
until one overtakes the other. He taught me
the long process of being subsumed.
When all I asked for
was to return to a time before there were words
for the types of weather.
To wake up in a different bed
under a different sky and not think Tornado Season.
I just want to be astonished.
Because, after awhile, I walked into rooms
thinking, How long is long enough
before I can leave.
The rivers were all the color
of old horses
too tired to run away.
Isn’t the depth of desire
somewhere near drowning. When someone explains
how the world is formed
through its own deformation, how do I
not give him my only waist
to pull closer.
I walked into rooms like I could stitch
a feather into my palm and be
a hybrid kind of lover who is expected
to flee. And what if someone
took a pair of tweezers, worked it out.
What if someone
still had a little hope left inside her.
A little hope one could light up
with a match.
