The Man Who Wasn't There

You asked me to bury
our silver rings outside
the old barn door,
the door that leads to the hayloft.

You never carried me across that threshold,
it was just a dream I woke to tell you about.
We were both kids, climbing up to the loft,
hiding behind a wall of hay bales,
your hands under my calico skirt, discovering.

Still that dream was solid enough
to hang our rings upon
back in the kitten eyed part of love
where every thing takes on special meaning,
this song, our song, secret handshakes, open doors.

Our bronze-legged statue you sculpted
watches from her shelf.
She gives birth to her own hands.
They reach out between her legs
and grasp tight to the egg
that is somehow her body.

We too, deliver ourselves,
climb leaning ladders,
press hard into softness,
bury silver rings in foreign soil
in hopes something will grow.

Survivor Poem
Poet's Choice, Trigger #49