Samsara

The curvature of his spine is ingrained
in the muscles of my hands. I can sense
when he is ill-at-ease, and if we are
alone, I will squeeze the back of his neck.
I apply the right amount of pressure.
Sometimes I wash his hair in the shower
and I will love him until I am dead.

And if there is a soul, and if I should
reincarnate, the person I become
will love a man she cannot remember.
Her mind will be etched with his silhouette
like a shadow, scorched
into a brick wall
by a bomb.

word salad

she is made of words, and they grow around
her. plant stalks of f, syllable thickets—
heliotrope; narcissus; hydrangea

they photosynthesize. their nourishment
is light. her footprints become round vowels
sinking into the topsoil as she leaves.

she is deciduous. when winter comes
they fall from her hands and chest and face and
decompose with no regard to structure.