Nicholas Lavender
You will dig me up from the earth
with only your trembling soft fingers. You will touch me
and I will feel pieces of myself fall apart
and suddenly I will feel barely there. 

You will pick me up and you will cook me. 
I will hope that I taste awful

and I will hope that you choke on my eyes
 and my ears and my arms riddled 
with white lines
and I will hope you still love me. 

You will cradle my roasted hands, my 
shoulders. You will brush my fused-together eyelashes 
with only your trembling soft fingers and your gentleness
will beg me to forgive you 
but I will not be able to because 
I will be dead. 

You will walk into the river and you won’t come out and 
I will not follow.
You will not flail or hesitate. 
Your trembling soft fingers will be swallowed by water. 

But that is all 
far, far away. 
For now, you and I 
are soft and warm.
For now, 
your soft fingers are mine to stop from trembling.