—after Rachel Zucker
The Eastern & Western sun, neither one, hates us, nor desires to hold or caress us with their large hands. Skin resists, and releases, leaps and tenses while the heat & light arrive—simple, our nerves & their needs. The hill might refuse its detractors, so the villain climbs her and plants in her a sharp flag. All these worthy trophies. Grass on hill. Grass under sun. Grass cut & grown again. The grandfather without his voice hears the hill invite him, wild and full of human desire he does not name. I have no legs, am a small monument atop the mound. I would belay & belay you, though you have ceased to thread the rope my way. Our girl has given her brother a dandelion and a cup, no cliché but a gift. Is this what you see when you lift yourself above your own lidded head—a belly and shoulders barely above the horizon? Is this what I heard when you said the word sever? The voiceless grandfather does not dream as he did. The hill, its splendid violets and gifts of yellow, comes alive. I can see from here and know these several heads. Put them together, love. Yes, I hope, for the hill. Believe with me for a day, two heads, or more, are better than?
