Last Spring

A pinched dagger in your brow, snarl
like the hum of a singular note
on a kettledrum, you rumble words
in the back of your throat, swallow
our Spring under the cherry blossoms

where I took your hand, and you
did not pull away, sheltered in the coals
of my eyes, I warmed you, the birds
overhead pitched, chasing the spirits
swinging in our laced shadows –

remember? You said you loved me,
could not speak it but you had
a curl of my hair around your finger,
and your stubble lit up with fireflies,
pale winter cheeks made alive

with a smile, the silence of deep
serpentine roads, I’ll tell you now, that
I still carry you, in the basket of
my chest, your waist still pushing
my soft skin into wild, gaping waves.