It was in the first separation that I knew
this body was not mine alone. I came from
the wet and damp. The dark moisture below firs
splintered by a doomed, irregular sunlight.
My legs were cedars, limp and unrooted,
against the gray line of smoke and timber.
I lay still as a downed wolf, stretching
myself in surrender to sky and estuary.
In this valley, I gave you two pine cones,
my naval, and other lesser things.
I learned nothing of my body except in
the giving of it; arms splintered like the
death knell of ancient conifers.
The sensual buds of weary deadnettle;
my spine grows with the forest floor,
offering a rebuke to the small girl
calmly watching the logging trucks trample
moss and spruce.
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