the portraits, watch you faceless flutter down—
a hundred-year-old snow dusts the ground.
This is our only blessing: bury you in the yard, sing
as I fingernail our forgetting into the bone clay 
—”Dear Ghosts, I pick the list,” Midden by Julia Bouwsma 

You find me here, worn and windtorn 
winter magnets you to every corner of me 
and I wait as you thumb each one of my spines, 
and pull my body into your hands 
hoping to bring back a memory lost in some other space 
you read me all the beginnings of love, spiraling 
into my chest a place to hide 
the portraits, watch you faceless flutter down—

we build a home here under the endnotes 
inside the prologue we weather this chilled wind 
your fingertips, insignificant. 
We hold space as I alter your language, 
sliver your understanding, expand your tongue 
(you know so much more than yesterday) 
and you hide it so no one can take our joy 
slow, quiet, tentative— 
you wrap your eyes around me as 
a hundred-year-old snow dusts the ground 

you tell me that a book can be a love letter, 
standing there waiting to be pulled 
from crown moldings, pot lights, oak floors. 
You speak of me like we will grow in this garden, even when waiting 
for someone to paint the sun across your back 
I remember how to celebrate in your head as I rumble
notes about people, places, and forgotten histories 
clogging your insides, clipping your waning half moon
heart as we try to bring back the sweet melodies 
This is our only blessing: bury you in the yard, sing 

as loudly as you want to, dream— 
watch your breathing shift as you turn pages and 
worry about the last book you’ll ever read, what
the weather will be like when you hold it— hold
me … for the last time 
we wither under false beginnings 
of a snowstorm, a wind whistles your memories
adrift into whispers and we can’t stop 
from seeding, from growing 
as I fingernail our forgetting into the bone clay