Possession

Thirty-three autumns. 
More autumns than I have names 

for; this season of ash and wilt, I count 
backwards but I’m still here, in this one. The past 

is impassable; a choked-out tunnel I find, over
and over again. Behind pine boards, the secret 

passage is full of rubble; shale, dolomite
rocks mined in Ohio, brought by dump truck, 

impossibly, over time. Every minute 
swallows back more at the exact pace I could dig, 

so I don’t. 

Where would I go, if I could go, anyway? What’s waiting 
for me, whose body can I enter, like a spirit, move 

their arm with my arm, leg with my leg, to what purpose?
Why walk down the same street over again? 

Where is the fun in knowing the weather for the day, the exact 
moment gun-gray sky will relent, clouds will wring 

themselves out over me. Our charcoal cotton shirt drinks the rain, clings 
to skin, your skin, and eventually, my skin by proxy. 

This is the closest we will ever be. 
I spiritually unzip you, climb into

your ribcage, unfurl myself to every corner of you, 
my fingers brim the glove of your skin. Some of me is bursting 

at your seams. I’m taller now, and bright with time. 
If I walk us back to the tunnel, will you dig for me there?