Maybe it starts with the kiss, a pressing 
of self to self, an opening 
of one to another 
down to heartwood, open
to the elements.
 
The arborist cuts a notch 
in the trunk, places the new variety 
in the wound, binds the two 
until they share every 
thing, confuse 
which is which,
who is who.
 
Whose leaf?
Whose limb?
Whose sun?

I hear him say 

I hate you,
I hate you 
 
and wonder if I should wake him, 
but sleep is so dear. 
 
I roll over, 
see him on the edge of the bed, 
 
a dark shadow slouched in a dark room 
 
so I ask who he was dreaming about.
He says “I wasn’t dreaming.”
 
I say, “I heard you.” 
 
And he says, 
“You were dreaming. 
I’ve been downstairs reading 
for an hour. I had 
cinnamon toast.” 
 
He leans over to kiss me.
His breath is butter in the dark. 
 
My lips pick up a crumb 
from the corner of his mouth.  
 
It tastes burnt.

See how thin 
our old bones are,
 
long batons of ulnae,
 
tibias sharp
and delicate.
 
See how the wings 
of our hips 
 
turn to lace,
 
to release us from the gravity
of floor and earth.
 
See how the loved ones 
anchor us in beds with rails,
 
tie us with threads 
of air and seawater.
 
Stay, they say, 
 
even as we prepare
to touch the clouds,
 
to break free.