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Guiding Me is a Question
Her hand wrapped around my wrist
not forcing, not leading
not squeezing, not embracing
not maternal, not paternal
both and neither.
Worm wrapped around her index finger
not unlike her hand around me
simple and strong.
Wilting flowers, mushrooms emerge.
The skin on her hand has sluffed off, exposing milky white bones
bones like branches
branches like bones
radius and ulna and trunk and branch
focused and diffuse
distinct and divided
a composite.
The roots reach down into the earth
connect to the mycelia
then reach down down down
so far down it’s out
so far out into space I can’t comprehend the distance
flying so fast the light becomes our copilot until
it vanishes so quickly that
time becomes a distant
tangle of an idea.