I could survive you if you were a highway I could depend on to leave
if chainsaws grew from my elbows if I were a mountain river Jupiter’s seventh moon if the ocean would gather me in a basket like apples for her lover’s plate if I was more glacier or sand barge than ceramic more honeycomb quill attic hatch if as I open like the attic hatch of my own fast-hearted burial another door was not padlocked above me if my chainsaws were not stuck crossed inside this humid crate if convinced the dark was a storm shelter if a moon or gold rings kept the winds at bay if a more certain metal bound gold to its covenant if the chains of your arms held me like a dark fall fragrance if Texas shed the warm embrace of a family quilt if Georgia wasn't a prayer and Savannah's cheek, a soft accent under may ear if I had one free hand to wrench the other’s pull cord if my hip was a silver locket I could crawl into and bolt closed when the night becomes an engine angry and iron-toothed when all of the world’s mouths stretch their hinges and slam when you open yourself like a shattered plate.