Line & Circle

The body drops,
like autumn branches,
through the air,
clouds
and oak trees.

Down a freefall,
collecting in her hair,
to make a crown.

She wears me high,
a source of pride,
like the tingle of metal,
the forger pounding me still.

I say to her:
our boys will find our bones
underneath this oak,
find my ribs stuck in your hips,
and how to separate father from mother?
Like a two-headed monster,
like a four-handed lover,
as if God created the Earth
so Adam could be her shelter.