across this land or any land

Poems

Constitution.

There is no fixed border,

no line cut clean

across this land or any land—

just an ache that pulls us forward

and back, while the earth remains

in its shifting sleep.

Who decides what is

or is not ours?

The language we repeat—

an old prayer,

a wind through fields of dry grass

we claim we have tilled.

Each blade whispers

of our right to be here.

And yet, beneath this,

the quiet of those who came before us,

the names we do not know,

their ghosts of law, the bones of order,

all built on earth they thought would hold.

But nothing holds.

We inherit dust

and a list of promises,

the worn edges of ideas.

Not the blood or sweat

but the name for them—

we speak as if it were real.

And maybe it is.

But even the firmest words fade.

---

Garden Party.

All afternoon,

glasses lifting and falling,

laughter spilling over the fence,

and the damp grass yielding

under our feet. We pretend

the world is small, simple.

A glass of wine,

a few scattered olives.

Our shadows grow longer

and we don’t notice.

In the distance, the wind

stirs the roses, light shifts,

a late bee hangs in the air

between us. Someone’s child

runs by, her face streaked

with sunlight and dirt,

and we let her go,

a feral thing that belongs

to the sky.

And for a moment, everything stops.

We hold ourselves still,

careful not to spill

the sweetness, as if the light

could somehow last forever,

as if we did not know

how quickly a party ends.

---

Morning.

The first light drifts in,

thin and careless,

like a hand skimming water.

Sheets twisted, the smell of sleep—

of skin warm from dreaming,

the heaviness still

between us, drowsy as breath.

Your mouth finds the curve

of my shoulder, slow as dawn,

and for a moment,

the room is quiet, hung

in that strange, still light.

Nothing outside exists yet,

no clocks, no promises—

only the soft press of your hand,

the weight and heat of bodies

drawn together,

before the world wakes,

before anything hardens.