by Kathryn Merwin
You knew me first as a craving;
rose hip stew simmered brown
over peppered crayfish– I smelled life
on the windows, grandmother shifting stories
into steam, walls summer-slick
beneath peeling yellow paper.
I whispered in your cold-
pressed ear, your stethoscope, I warbled you
a litany. I kicked you
in the rib over the julbord, holly grove and caged
bird: you felt my roots spread. Felt the tide
rise in your stomach.
We met at the solstice, over lingonberries
and sweet golden Pommac. I split your body,
two hemispheres of home, one little moon
tethered to a planet. I know
what your heart sounds like
from the inside.