Between Long Grass

I remember how my pen began
running ink, carving canals,
how I dried my fingers
on your cheeks, tilted
your head down so that you could
drink out of my palms.
This, in the nighttime,
in a place where silence
would seek you out,
where you would not hunt
for a life, save,
maybe for a deer,
or a trick of light.

We were told of ticks
in the grass. Twirl
for me, help me look
for Lyme disease.
You were so warm
I misunderstood: child
with its mother,
suckling, pulling at corners
of blind-drawn night,
holding my camera
flash up to your mouth.
I can still see the dew.

My hands cannot grasp beyond
the quiet of us – in the way
I spied you by the fourth floor
window on the polyester-
nylon mix mattress, hiding
from curfew. The quickly
smothered nightlight
by Canadian
wildfire smoke.

I left you
somewhere between
the cul-de-sac
and the brownstone.

I forgot you in summer fields