Light hands thread wool and silver,
duck cloth and burlap,
the concrete and dirt under the wood.

Your bold heart betrays your mouth.
Your chest is a bellowing gong
against your sisterhood-cotton-patch.

Could the river cry to your empathy?
or would you stuck-stay-stubborn
and hard-****** to your unmoved stoicism?

You have the rich-filthy-love I look for.
Truth hearty and sacred like the
sincerity I didn’t believe in before you

showed up creeping toward my front,
announcing yourself as unending,
giving the stomach promise of stay-sure flight.