Thousands of leaves scatter toward us,
New Year’s confetti.
Icicles—test tubes,
bruised apples—a baby’s beating heart.
A needle pokes in and out in and out
sewing your name.
This is the season in between seasons.
Our paddles cut through water,
reminds me of my mother’s porridge
thick, lumpy, never the same consistency.
Your fishing line jerks, the fish escapes.
Your spinner stuck to a tree branch.
We had banged on the rack of bones that
was the canoe’s chest.
Mice ran out,
tiny blind bodies clinging to their mother’s
nipples, naked in the presence of the Red-Tailed
Hawk.
This is the funnel of nature.
I’m swept up between The Valley,
her hips straddling me
the explosions of artillery
from the Gap sound.
I feel the contractions
before she gives birth.
The earth’s blood pools
beneath my feet.
