by Tricia Knoll
the yellow script of secrets buried
in red dirt and paperweighted
against curious winds under uneven bricks
formed in gnarled human hands.
I do not want to be a wet butterfly,
bemused at becoming something else.
Let my fingers tease weft from warp
of the wool blankets under which I was conceived.
On this woodsy path, many soft-soled feet
pounded oak leaves into dust. Then rains
and hurried boots churned that dust
to a scrim. I want to unfold crackles
lingering below the fungal smell of mold.
Ask me to unfold the lists of today’s errands
or collect sweepings from the floor
of yesterday when you yelled in sleep
at strangers hurting babies. You woke up
to unwind your stiff body
that I recognize as home.
I want to unfold ruins and roads,
smell creases and soothe out skin
as if words never mattered.