The Treehouse

Eager I was to initial your flesh

Mark it mine forever

(a fairly short forever as I recall.)

You called up my drainpipe

Your hot unvaried song

“Who will know?”

We were the ones who did not know.

The treehouse was our yearbook –

 Memory’s coffin; there

 You swallowed me whole

Like a circus act,

A disappearing act 

None saw

While insects feasted on our

Unwatched blood

Bursting to the rhythm

Of our bursting.

If I mistake your face these days

In a flower-field of faces

Shifting to moon pressure

Swaying to wind pressure

Listing according to laws unknown

Count me not

Along your abacus of traitors;

I am She;

The blood still flows, still glows

In the treehouse.

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