By Tiffany Chaney
A leaf hastening
to nourish detritus—
into your arms
we grew better roots together,
or, at least, preserved the seeds
in time for a bitter winter.
Yet maybe I only love
that peaceful place in you,
the silent, steady eye
that sometimes reveals
freight train gale and hail
although you reject the notion
they exist in you.
Yet you spit dirt in the eye,
send me into a typhoon
from my carefully-crafted cocoon.
I am the tempestuous one,
while the blood boils
into your tense hands
and quicksand lips.
A flood unleashes—
It's my fault
line, and we run the same ones,
every time. Tectonic, we shift,
displace overburden, crack tenuous roots,
the impeding fracture of fault creep;
deeply felled heart bled, for daring
wear it on a sleeve.
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