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something within us both,

taken too late from the vine,

is a sugary sludge, bruised and trying

having known too much of the sun

pushed past its warm christening

and bent beneath inexorable glaring

cresting upon indiscriminate softening

bowing to horizon of decay

too sweet for use, or reception

scouring this timeworn orchard

for one worthy yet left

that we may feed.

nourish me of the clay that made you:

this is Ezekiel's valley, here

in this unnamed growing sown

reverently between my ribs

i bear witness to your gentle flowering

rooted upon something gnarled and ancient

petals born of violence pressed

into my palm, to eat. taste, and see —

that before my homecoming

to the womb of the dirt:

what was mine has bloomed

to be yours.

i crown what's buried in you with tigerlily

fleshy flame not to absolve, but speak for

what is raw and bare beneath the soil

to sing of how it is meant to be seen.

you are not furniture polish and cold lace.

you are hungry hands, withheld —

you are ache itself,

and extract me from the earth,

though the threshold

is not mine to cross

and demands i leave you there.