After we dropped yellow heart leaves,
and pissed beneath cold stars,
you turned over in bed to ask when my face looks like old tree bark will you
I replied not likely.
Aloe sizzled on skin,
baked hot as river rocks, running in the long shadow
of your lightly furred spine.
In winter, my grandmother was scattered
among the roots in my backyard.
This summer, you said that if I learned the names of these strange stems, this place
could be just like home.
Out here, mosses, like shadow people,
could all be the same.
This morning, I decided to be ash mixed with the roots of the lychee tree
instead of laying with misnamed leaves.