You didn’t know the word—
just the gravity of dirt, her
pulse in small, round palms.
Your purpled nails on the ice;
we had come to pull the skin back
from motherearth. To mind her tendons,
You told me about isolation, how
you were alone by a tree – all around you
that mountain, her fire breath.
You were four.
We pulled the skin of a pomegranate back
her people gripping white to her chest.
We released her seeds in a wide, tin bowl,
&you told me you were sad by your firetree,
but it was ok.
We are far from her now/ dirt, nails, tin. We are here
to pull this wilted skin back, to salve old soils
simply because we have the hands and the eyes.
—and, you tell me it’s ok. —it’s going to be.