by Hannah Price
this is because i want to fit together with you like swans,
because when neither of us speak you can hear the grass growing
without putting your ear to the ground:
your throat has my nose pressed to it;
beneath the line where our skin meets is a yawning expanse,
and if i close my eyes i can see
the shifting immaterial of the earth, brown and black,
breathing because you are breathing.
your breathing is not like grass growing
but i know they are happening from the same place, at the same time
and if i listen long enough i can hear
a heartbeat echoing in your collarbone, like something speaking underground.
if i breathe as the grass grows i can see everything from here;
unending ground that seeks
the space below your head.
and when i pause it's dark enough to see the words collect,
small and distant
in my chest
like chicken bones at the bottom of a well
Hannah Price is a writer and student living in Chicago. She is pursuing nothing!