Cut open the sky and let your hair rain down.
There is power in not knowing
when to scream. There is sin
in how softly the sun falls. This isn’t the last
moment for names. Tell me yours
after the wind dies
down, when our footsteps will echo
over dirt roads. Tell the bastards
not to stare before skinny-dipping in the mud
we’ll bask our breasts in. And when they lick
their lips, use only the bones
between your toes to speak. Now, answer
me: how does a body secede
from itself? How does summer
slip to hate? This isn’t what you want
but it is what you will rehearse,
again and again,
until the stain leaves
your scalp. Carry it on a stone
to skip. Keep it tucked
between your legs. I’ll call you
when it’s time to sink.