Tell me!
Don’t tell me.
I don’t want to know:
the flash of his smile,
the curl of the water,
the way that the tree roots
stab through the mud
like the four-pronged tips
of a blood spattered lance,
leaving me bruised,
limping,
swallowing my pride,
pumping with chemicals
and bubbles of water.
Don’t tell me
the wonder that this could become—
tree bark and earth
tattooed to my hands
of mountains, of cackling,
of throwing my chest to a wide-open sky,
of cliff face and cloud trails
and lanes built for axes
in the dip of the yard.
Tell me.
Don’t tell me.
I don’t want to know.
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