The sound spools out, snags.
I watch the rowan bend down, frown
under the weight of it, the intent.
'I could love her, I'm sure...'
Six soft syllables as fierce as wolves.
My head becomes an armoured bear.
It's the shape of them too, as they hang
in the air. A battalion of thunderclouds caught
in the filtered light of your beautiful face.
A halo of mumbling exits my throat,
weaves a shield into the silence, clangs.
I think of swords buried with kings under fells.
Your brother told us of the myth of Endingsia.
How her tears were so salty the oceans claimed her
and the sky never got over her absence
so it fished the sinews of her from the depths,
yarned them into clouds. Knitted the first snow storm
from the memory of her, froze the world.
The seven year old girl that still flames
in my stomach opens her mouth, roars a blizzard
of ash over the embers of us, ignites.
For a second, I see the could-have-been-happy
shadow of our future selves walking the hallways
of abandoned libraries in other countries.
Feel the weight of the jetsam we would have salvaged
from the wreck of other people's lives, lost loves.
It sinks now, anchors down among the tides
of your breath, whirlpools inside those five words.
And then it's gone. Just one more dream gnawed
in the jaws of a voracious and unsettled world.