Remembering the depth of soil
by Khara House

Remember the solitary breath? Like rivers, coursing
through—making room for more things.
It began like stirring, like sifting grain,
threshing, watching the chaff arch high on breezes
painted purple and ochre, the wind you called
this is not enough.

You found me in the field.
Half-shaped and warm, dew and milk
bubbled on breaths not my own. Remember the touch of burlap
on my skin? The wrap, the carry, the shoveling love.
You told me I was yours, then, yours alone.

Now we are whirlwinds, whirligigs,
whipping posts for one or the other’s missing hands.
We cannot touch,
no part reaching far enough to hold on, cling,
keep safe the drowning inch of buttery affections we once
shoveled out like coal. Remember the tear me down,
watching me unroot? Hoping to someday remember wings,
to learn to fly back to your red, red barn.

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