It has always been like this: I slept
in a pack on your belly, wanting 

to knit myself into your lobe and herd.
I needed to get down into you. 

Born I drained our mother’s very teeth.
For months my dewy infant head 

refused to grow, refused the silver rope
of cleaving cells, unending surface area 

of other and other. But you: you are
the surefoot, knotted to your own 

tender oil of trees. I have not
given any teeth, sister, only wander. 

My stomach never calmed;
it marked me with its milk and chew.

Already the arrow blasts against
my forehead: I should be going on, 

fruitless as I could be unwritten,
written out. Each day my mouth opens 

on that disunion, a brilliant cleft of air.
You must know something 

of the same rupture, so where is
your face when I turn to it? 

At this point I’ve lost the story,
am looking for a sister ship

half-buried in someone else’s snow.
Still I take on the edges of your lake 

as my child oath, shake all that I know
into outlines you recognize. 

I lean my open neck against yours.
The miracle always returns with a hunger.