Heather Bourbeau
On My Skin
And if I let you trace echoes of trails left by lovers, worn into memory like water carves
canyons along the soft pull of ribs, the jaded rope of shoulder and nape, the tender cover of
my spine?
And what if I were the clay worker’s lover— red skin etched with visions unshared
for rivulets of water and sweat to run through, the brackish taste of labors left to dry,
to feed the parched and practiced?
Or the falconer’s daughter, attending the excavation of her wings hardened early
for ghosts of battles yet to come, light flutters resuscitating blades to unfold,
chest to soar?
Or the cartographer’s mother, whose throat once sang with ache and ardor, whose curves
map havens where age and optimism meet and part, whose head you hold gently
as she sleeps?
And what if I allow the valleys to fill, the scars to heal, the stories to be buried
further into my bones? How will you coax my guard to fall, my flesh to molt,
my breath to rouse the weary storyteller?
“Picking green almond, in Syria” (2008)
I grew under the shadow of almonds,
slept in fog and marsh,
dreamt of water and fire
the calls of crickets,
the echoes of mountains
I drove along levees,
smelled the rice harvest burns,
sang of birds unnamed
I grew under the shadow of almonds,
swam in the promise of pink blossom rain,
roamed in the luxury of misspent springs
now the pull of you,
the call of olive groves,
seven thousand miles away,
the pain of pleasure almost found
I watch a film of four women young,
their private harvest of orchard green,
hair tied and loose, laughter cascading
between bites and waves
the savor of loz ‘akhdar,
the wonder of friends still gathered,
the delicious ignorance
of what will come
