On Sunday

by eatonhamilton

(NB:  WordPress does away with my stanza breaks.  Stanza breaks are indicated thusly:  //)


I wanted to tell you about the nurse tree

along the forest path, how she spit her

young from the hips of her stump to the sky,

how, even so, Martin and I loved her neighbour

best, bark ripping into hidden crevices, moss

mounting her sides.  I wanted to tell you//

insertion, talking your hand, your wrist; I

swam dizzy all Sunday through kelp

and dulce, everything slurred around me,

my emotions absorbent as sponge.

You must understand I was touched

soft and far, lolling into what should//

surely have frightened me, but did not.

My mouth was sore and bruised.  I smelled you

deep in my skin, a scorch: the honeyed

sting of a slap.  That tree slamming the sky, you

appearing before me like linked scarves out of

someone’s sleeve–significant, utterly simple.

-Jane Eaton Hamilton