The first time, we were
at their family farm, parents on
the other side of the wall.
They laid their arm heavy over my chest:
“Bad memories,” I said, shrugging it off
turning to be held by them instead.
For a semester, every
single every every single night,
we slept that close together.
Our bed was stilted and unfenced on either side
a mattress held precariously in the air.
We gathered to the middle for security
and I held them and I held and held them there.
In the middle of the night, I wake up
in his arms, wrapped around my stomach
and pulling me tightly to his chest.
We are on a farm I’ve never seen, together
for one night; in a loft
but I feel firmly on the ground.
I think I want to hold
you, I think To keep you safe,
and he wakes up as I gently
turn around.
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