my childhood bed. My mother, wrapping
the gifts, intermittent tape scratches.
Pillows without cases, wrapped
in plastic now so that they sing
when my face rubs against it
in the dark.
My beloved there in the trees.
The leaves bearing herself, now.
Branch. Go. Limb. Dont.
His toes knowing just the nook
to hold to, his footsies clinging to each
natural wooden step.