Take me back to that field beyond town
where the meadow rush left us
breathless with attachment.
Pull me down in those tall grasses & help me know

the weight of our own weather,

the drag of the dust,

and the salty taste of necessity when it latches onto
a tongue too tired,
too hot with fire
to fight this feeling any longer.

When I was a kid,
my house went up in flames.
       & I rescued you.
Let me explain.

1. The rattle & clash of bright plastic figurines,
rough cut edges,
country names for dance partners
coupled in history (Czechoslovakia, my favorite).

2. The storybook personalities of sea shells,
green foam homed –
those bone-crisp indentations.
Sand dollars, a conch, & several other mismarked miracles.

3. A team of tiny wooden boxes
stiff-lidded & adorned with
primary-splashed wooden lattice –
those musty secrets left for stronger hands.

4. Even tinier little people living inside
dressed with bold colored string
coiled to make nubby little outfits.
A family of bendable wire frames.

5. & glue-speckled carpet speckled carpet blue,
cream, rose pink, & rose leaf green
hard-crusted with the experiments of a Christmas
stuck in the past.

This imagined world painted like gauze on my eyes.
No goal, just play.
Squint & replace it.
How can I soften further?

I want to know our names.
I want to know when to plant the corn
& how to harvest the outcome.
Because it took me so long

to sew up my heart this way.
This outcropping of heat & how hard will you fight it?
Listen when I tell you no.
But listen harder when I tell you