Quilt
Location
I drape over her body:
shrunken
cold
severe.
The cavernous spaces,
like trenches
running down
the sides,
welcome me to
fill
their voids.
Like snow,
I blanket her geography.
Jagged
marrowed
mountains protrude,
ejecting warm hope.
Leached like driftwood.
Not even a quilt of
fire
could mend this
terminal winter.
What to do?
Words spoken as softly as
cashmere
will not
compel her to
stop.
Thoughts unfurled.
Needing emancipation.
Wanting emaciation.