by Elizabeth Harmon Threatt

I give you my hand
to break the fingers if you want
and the small reed-bones
on the back of my palm to snap
while you catch new grass
between your toes, blades sinking
deep through your brittle heels.
I give you the bones of my back to taste,
and watch as you rub your thumb
against my throat, holding the sky
as grief inside your chest. Together
we fall, with softly opened, mewling mouths,
feel the air between us blink next to skin,
the world green inside your swallowing eyes.
You have my hips to bury beside
your feet in all their rootedness,
my knees to hold you up.
And when you become a tree,
sweet-nesting in the damp hair
curled next to your neck,
I hold you in my arms, whisper to you
sweaty-tongued and airy,
pull back and breathe into your leaves.