My Appalachia
cautionary bones/ we could climb the tree to get through your bedroom window/ even winter’s scalpel cold, and the fireplace was burning oak, and that warm scent would hibernate under your sheets and quilts like caves where your tongue inside my mouth was not unlike walking through the fields with you, and at night with yellow illumination from lanterns gone soft and down the lane, and everyone knew we were in your bed except your brothers who ignored us as if they were silently amused by a wild music they could never know except in the secrets of the woodlot/