Eaton Hamilton

It was the ladder I saw

the raw clop of hammer and nail

the wordless, tedious years between the provinces,

between the scars and who you think I am.

My hunger was unavoidable, though you assailed it.

My laughter was dense, a terrified thing running.

It was the placement of rungs too far between

or the six years of mornings

or the miles of provinces.

Your hips, drawing them over and over,

tongue to skin like pencil.

I didn’t know what I wanted.

Love.

A plane ticket away.