I give up touch. My hand holds stems 

         of air, while I remember 

         the long hair I wore 

         as a not-girl child. 

 I give up touch to feel 

         safe in a body. How could I be 

         the girl they saw the man 

         I am? Somewhere beyond language 

we are touching 

only the long hair   

of the cool stream 

meeting the lake   

and I remember   

sky when I look down 

into its surface, my face 

only veil, and below, rocks fish   

my shadow. My pulse. Sun and moon 

         set and rise. Everywhere branches 

         tangle. Mist from the lake 

         catches in my beard. Once a butterfly 

         rested there. The moment I said I’m not 

         a flower, she lifted away 

         and I was all bloom.  

What is our essence and who 

         drinks its nectar? A small god 

         surely lives in my throat 

         a kind of temple. I have fed him flesh 

         from the forest floor 

         and he cradles my eyes 

         and he grows me up 

         into the green 

         of trees. I know 

         he’s gold though he’s only ever been 

         visible in dreams. He appears 

         as my mother, childhood 

         pets, a first love, a ghost 

         story whispered over flashlight 

         in a backyard tent, neighbors 

         whose names I’ve lost.   

Here is where I try to hear him.   

Here is where I study how to love him 



         bring him elderberry, oxeye 

         daisy, row of purple 

         foxglove, leopard 

         slug, mock orange, morning 

         glory, mountain lettuce.   

It rains here often. I learn to be water 

in a garden. A handsome solitude is not the same   

as loneliness. It’s here I call my little gold god   

beloved, friend.