it is not a knife
when you gut the fish,
it's your words.
you live in a cabin,
and when you leave the cabin

everything else becomes
the facade of the forest.
my roots are here, beneath
your words, beneath the wet earth,
i am a tree growing here,

spreading my branches
like a dancer,
i am grateful
for the way you **** me,
i am grateful for the way

i die like a fish,
flopping and gasping
for air. i wait for the fire
to come, it comes ever
summer

and when it comes
for
you,
i know the prayers
you whisper;

the cabin never
falls, the cabin never
burns,
and the river
*never runs dry