an unwashed portion 

of the woods in winter

names darkening up through 

his hips, catching hold 

on the low branches

near my window


branches whisper

that the air inside a person

is dangerous and out

of sync, a density 

of cells spreading down 

to the roots


looking out, tracing movement 

my brother is the pine tree

with blood, my curtains 

kept loose for 

the wind and his whispers

about home


couldn’t find my throat 

or arms until he kissed

my hands, we mapped

my chest and split my nose

to get out, we couldn’t 

let his cabin let me go