By: Amanda Trujillo

I will listen to you grind your teeth;
your impatience growing much like trees,
slow, steady until their branches reach
to the heaven above – cool breezes,

on a particular rainy day, my soul you’ll take.
Snow melting, icicles licking their tips
into falling. Numbered mornings to wake
up to sunshine sinking into my lips.

In the final hours, you’ll tap your fingers
against the bark. Eyes patiently gazing,
through the dew, your sour breath lingers,
masking the supple air. Close your gapping

mouth, for I will carry you, until it’s me you carry,
close with love – it is my corpse, that you will bury.