The Tinman

“The Tinman”

To Paolo

I was always overwhelmed

inside violent skies.

You came to me every time,

guiding me far,

far away from the land

from the sea

and into a decayed orbit

where we would live over and over again.

We made a kitchen

with pots and pans

from tattered metal rockets

and scraps of spaceships.

Nearly every day

you found me the final blade of grass,

turned it into an origami dove,

strung it between strands

of my hair and tied it around my finger…

Like the most raw emerald ring

that hummed soft promises –

so whole and complete

it made the very moon

look like a ball of cotton

about to fall out of an old pocket.

Our beds tucked into crevices

and intersected into rock walls.

Dust would gently rise

and settle like the rupture of sand

sitting on the ocean’s floor

after a manatee immerses.

We were weaving dust

to blankets when we noticed

how our bedroom began to pulse

like an organ,

the blood rolling in waves

under the floor.

Yet as rooms began

softening into flesh,

possessing lifeless memory,

the breathtaking rived orbit

we were made to inhibit

looked like the most fragile of dolls,

unable to keep pace

as ours only quickened.

I loved you inside that place

where I learned what it is to follow.

To allow love is to watch a pitiful thing.

To uproot and assume

I replant easily where put

is a hard thing to watch.

In my dreams,

your boots are in the soil, untangled, releasing in the sweet summer air,

and still I recoil from mace –

with all the little moments

you pushed me away

that I can’t erase.

Every moment over fueled with power.

We kiss and only now

do I see your mouth

like an ache

you never knew,

and it was right in front of you.

©Christin Brennan


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