Mine


mine

The boy kept grabbing, kept putting his
Hands all over me and saying — one way or
Another: “mine,” and I didn’t have the
Words at first, nor then the steel, then
The will to stop him. I let it all
Roll downhill, the both of us
Tumbling over the earth and
Each other and he still grasping at
Whatever he could with I unable to
See the sense in it. And we skidded
Like Buttercup and Wesley
Over course dry grass into the
Last fold of the hillside, and that
Was the end of it all, the end of
Moving in any direction, of needing
Anything but to
Lie on our bruises, and
Gaze at clouds made
Whole by the wind until our
Breaths returned and I noticed the
Feel of his fingertips just barely
Against my own and I could then
Move toward him just enough
So he could hear me agree:
“Yours.”

photo “mine” by Grevel, on Flickr

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