The Return

by Caleb Scott

Where now does the body
go (pillow between

your legs is not me) the
feet know, scratch at

the surface of the sheet,
the heat     underneath

a victory, space
finally defeated.

Your back (turned away, soft
wall) is all secrets. Each

spot counted aligns to
another name. I lay

out a hand, take it,
I say, let my lines make

their mark there (You move,
moan through

a syllable that is
not me). The groove

down your middle, shallow
split of rib-

                   cage, rises,
settles in, my hand

once met you there and
was enough, I am

thinking. My thought is not
my hand.    (Facing me,

breath sweet needle
bursts) the curse is

in the closeness.
I try to breathe in and in

and in; air an ocean,
salt, seaweed, rose-hips.

(Your round lower lip
curls slightly in:

“Rise,” I think it is
saying)                  I rise, my

parts all re-align
ing. Outside, silence is

a disguise—sparrow
finds her perfect

perch, worm rolls toward
the ivy shade. (You,

now spark of            eyes,
breasts, shoulder, neck,

white stones of a river-
bed) your body

says, simply, not time
yet, rest,   rest, rest, rest.

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