—i remember  
the root-spool spool’d & spindled into him (the Tallshoes)—  
his collarbone made of oak-meat & mothjaw,  
his breath a sermon from the century’s throat  
           & he (he?)  
              was all knuckles & psalms, breaking—breaking  

              me  

so gently i could almost not die  

:in the lampdusk, where piecrust dreams go to rot,  
i lived in a hush-jar behind the walls of  
     her (yes–her/ not-me)  
     knitting sugar into skin,  
     biting stars till they bled apologies.  
     this was our manor of hushthings.  

he’d kiss like a rifle.

and somewhere between  
the eighth clatter of china and the third motherless sun,  
the lungs of the house exhaled me—  
                         (twigbone, mossgut, tailghost)  
                         soft ruin squeaking for its end.  

i prayed to the god in the cellar drain.  
i danced with the dustmen.  
i unremembered my own name until it was appleseed, cough, smudge.  

& yes (listen)  

           i saw her  
               (once) peel the sky from a peach.  
           her hands trembled the way old poems do—  
           a flicker//flicker// hush.  

        “don’t wake him,”  
        she said,  
        as if my death  
        were  
        the only dream  
        keeping him asleep.

o! my ribs are a /forest/ now  
      (shhh)  
      (they bloom in secret)  
      (they tell no one)

and the last thing  
before the hush became  
                 forever:  

a child with an empty thimble  
calling  
my name.  

which i no longer had.  

but i answered anyway.