i smell earthy
like wood
and the logs that i brought in
ignoring the shaking in my arms
from all the weight
and i didn’t complain
because the wood chips
and splinters
stuck in my sweatshirt
hide the stench
of unwashed hair and skin
and the ever encompassing
fear

and i wonder why
my fingers and palm are not
big or strong enough
to grasp a log with one hand
and heft it up on top of
the others already held
in my trembling arm
but my hand is big enough
to dwarf a child’s

and warm their small hands
between my own
the way their small fingers
clasp onto mine
make me want to cry
because to be needed
and wanted so desperately
and wholly by someone
is a feeling
that i am not
used to