Slivers in my skin

I woke up with splinters in my hands

who was that man?

with bark in place of palms

and oak instead of lips

with limbs like tired rope

And for elbows there were knots

and for his stomach there were flames

instead of talking we would smoke

and then I don't remember much,

He held me close, until I gave

his eyes were burning

strong with kerosene

and for a man with

oak instead of lips

his song was

the smooth and silver

echo-birch

he let me see his

hollow throat

echoing all the way down

And me,

my skin was softer than

the inside of a hemlock

we peeled eachother green

desperate arbutus

letting everything

drop into the oil-ocean

flames learned how to climb

and afterwards he

draped me like clothes drying on a wire

he pulled my shoulders

up

we were trying to touch the sky

but our hands were locked together

I think I'd rather die.

I woke up with splinters in my hands

my memories were charred

my tongue was black

my body was a ghost.