The Thing That Survives

I want to reach across the world and cradle her.

I want my arms to extend like

The branches of some sacred tree,

Creating a sanctuary of bark and leaves,

And giving her something to burn.

All life, and fire, and smoke, and ash.

I want to pull her in as if I were a tidal wave.

Help her learn to float through it all

Without remembering the depths below her.

All cold, and dark, and wet, and unknown.

I want to reach across the world and cradle her.

I want to send down roots that twist and coil,

Fighting through the heat, the dry, the dark

So that they may reach her and remind her

Of the things that grow from this.

This suffocating.

This tempting hollow of a rotting log,

Some memory stowed away in a leaky boat and

Dripping between her eyebrows.

Yes, I see it too.

We share this.

You, and I, and her across the room.

This sensation.

This need.

An old desire they tried so hard to kill.

But I will reach across the world and cradle her.

And she in my arms, me in yours, you in hers,

We are the branches of some sacred tree.

And we are the thing that survives.