we let these valleys run deep
in our veins with no questions
anymore. it has become second
nature to know these winds,
to hear the song the leaves sing
before a storm rolls over the
hills on the other side
of the county.

i always thought my
eighteenth year would be
the last i would know the
rustle of the pampas grass
in the early morning or the
way the snow settles deep
over everything beyond our
property. now twenty-three
draws nearer quicker than
a younger version of me
could have ever imagined
and i feel it tightening in
my chest with each passing
day, that small town desire
to find the things i've been
left out of for two decades.

mama used to say i had
the universe in my bones,
told me she thought i
would explode from it, said
just yesterday that there is
a longing inside me that
she doesn't think will ever
be tamed. i never thought
the midwest sun could hold
me, yet i keep bowing at her
feet, keep begging her to
swallow me. maybe if i stay
a while longer it will be
enough to carry with me.

i wonder how much home
i can soak up before i go.

orange marmalade
gooey on our fingertips,
sweet on your lips. i say
i could spend all day feeding
you toast and honey but no
no only cookies you tell me.
the warmth from behind your
knees runs through my thighs
and i think i could get used to
the way the sun turns your
skin as golden as your heart.

we have wandered to these parts
(yeah, 'these parts,' mim, that's what
we call that here in kansas)
because you said this was the only
place the sky could almost touch you
if you stretched your fingers far enough.
when we reach the top of the hill
you climb up on a rock that seems
impossible, shout nasty words
because you don't think anyone can
hear you way up here. the sun
starts to slip toward the horizon
and you turn to me with a pink
reflection in your eyes, tell me to
reach my hands up until i can't
reach any further.
oh, this is a good one. you feel that? you feel that?
i look at you, your arms far above
your head and eyes closed, your
skin honey colored in this light.
*yeah. yeah i can.

when i was little i wanted to grow up
to be a tree, did i ever tell you that?
there was an oak tree next to my house
and i loved her like she had given me
my skin, used to plant tulips at her feet
and sing to her on the coldest days
of winter so she would know i hadn't
forgotten about her as soon as the first
day got shorter. i thought if i breathed
with her long enough i would learn to
be tall, learn to be sturdy, learn that wind
is nothing but a momentary nuisance.
i would stand at her base and let the sun
that rippled through her leaves paint
freckles on my nose while i reached my
arms up toward the clouds like vines,
thought i could bend and stretch and make
a home for the birds and the butterflies.

my dad always told me there is no such
thing as something that is too far away.
there are always cars, always boats and
trains and ladders. if you want something
bad enough, he would say, distance
doesn't exist. but an ocean. but an ocean.

sometimes i think i could feel you in my
fingertips before i knew you. like when
i was stretching up to the endless sky,
you were pulling from somewhere else. i
wonder if the me who wanted to be a home
for the earth knew she'd grow up to want
to be a home for you.

i wish i was in the u.s.
we live for these moments
where time is not too             far
ahead     or     behind,
when we whisper across
w a v e s  and  p a s t u r e s
that the only place we
see ourselves in five
years is rings and creaky
floors,    maybe    a cat
(maybe  t w o ,  love*)
and an old couch from
a thrift store in
leeds. this is the
time when you sing to
me all the songs we're
now calling  "O  U  R  S,"
and we make some kind
of playlist up for the rainy
days when you say you
feel unsettled and grace
is the only thing
holdingyoutogether.
there is comfort in
knowing that our feet
touch the same earth
day          after         day
step              after     step,
that we have no choice
but to only    keep
going    until we are
toe-to-toe,
heart-to-heart.