Your arms turned feathers, beta keratins
braided foreign and wrong. You took to sky
And became an ‘m’ in one thousand
Children’s drawings, one thousand hangings
On one thousand walls. One thousand bee stings.
I swear you were a finger width away
Last night as I checked the map. Mexico
Was periwinkle, stretching out below.
You have been lingering in my whiskey,
and I’ve stitched you in the cotton running out
Beneath the floorboards and I love the orange
silver of your shoulders. Leaves turn a shade
reminiscent of your collarbone.
If it came to blows, I would lay you out.