If Heaven hadn’t willed you to temper me—

soil-scented, wild-eyed, shapeless—

I would’ve lain alone by Death’s curtain,

curse-beaten, shedding prayers like fur.

From the earth, you bloomed in my image:

emmer-fair, with nightly braids. I once thought

one should rejoice to bear my face,

my jeweled armor of forefathers past; that

if your crescent smile crumbled, I would

flatten the night and begin again.

Is it true, that a copy cannot surpass

the original? Still, between linen blankets,

flesh-king and clay-king twined fingers, soft

then hard, fired by secrets. You learned quickly

the sweetness of summer dates, the language

of eagles and blushes. The others buzz:

you axed the trunk of my will, you are a wind

drumming to my sighs. If only they knew 

I have counted the raindrops which dented you, cut 

myself on the poetry collected in your breast

as you trailed your roots over blue-brimmed 

steppes—untamed, unafraid of falling. 

Now, sunlight pours over you and sums

up my wrinkles. How I envy those 

who shall embrace you, mold you, far from

the snakes and vines where we made our bed.

Wetted by your lashes, I fold, a loam. 

Forgive me—I must trace upon you 

a lie: don’t weep, my heart. Long before 

we met, I had already dreamt of this moment.