when I met her, she stood tall in her poem. moon dangled from back pocket, tides danced back and forth, she is of water, you could tell, emigrated from mountain to valley, valley to sea, and to mountain once more, moon resting at her feet, tides reinventing where she ebbs and flows, she is of water, you could tell, carrying debris, mountain to valley, valley to sea.
when I met her, legs crossed, moon at her feet, she stood tall in her word, gently pulled on my wrist, whispered, tonight, you are yours. you are not war, you are not broken bodies or lost poems, you are not promises made in the gentle flow of your heart, instead, you are yours.
when I kissed her, the moon at her feet inched closer, leaned in to listen, you could taste the genealogy of movement on her tongue, heat of desert cradling salty water of Mediterranean, river running time immemorial, one home to another, she is of water, you could tell, of folk that found rebirth in yearly flood, redefining anatomy of home on their tongue, she is of movement.
there are days we lay in our bed, strangers, lovers, the moon sits by her feet, quiet brilliance, we do not touch, we do not talk, today there is no movement, the water on her bedside lay still. our toes touch, the hair on my thigh brushes against hers.
I am reminded of the moon dangling out of her back pocket the day I met her, two genealogies of movement, laying still, together.
