by Jessica Reidy
We knew the body of the moor
together. Does my hair smell of heather still?
You wanted this, my voice
of frost. I took your name; you took
my ghosts. And when you rest
beside me, let bone match bone.
We will crawl into the earth
and form the roots we never had—
your gypsy face turned my heart amber.
I died with your history.
You will say my name. Invoke the soul.
We are the same red dirt in the same
coffin hole. My face is the ice
on the glass, the window you broke.
When your fist clawed
through I was your blood, your
tearing skin. The sounds of agony,
my purchase. Heather fields
still fill our eyes with castles
we made together in birth, in death.