BUTCH4BUTCH

I.

Before the fledgling fern unfurls its newest frond,
your thumb & forefinger press at its nape as though
a mother to the scruff of a kitten, as though even here
pinching through the stem to hold the crook of green
in your palm, you have not yet cut your teeth on the
surprise of your own gentleness. This curled question
arrives with the spring—its arms almost open—the rare
weeks when anything might yet bloom.

II.

My father showed me how to shift the gears & walk the car
forward like a wild horse—it, too, adept at reading fear.
I wanted to learn the way I wanted most things:
bullfrog with my throat overfull of eager air. Quiet
until provoked. That the car would finally quit not a few
weeks later was to be expected when mimicry had always
been my greater fluency. If not my father’s daughter,
I could be my father himself. A lone boy behind a barn
throwing each ball ever wider from its target.

III.

Because you wind the clippers around the scroll of my ear
I can forget your hard-earned ease. I used to hold an instrument
up to my chin like this—to cradle it—as you cradle my jaw
to keep my head from following. You must have schooled
yourself in this somehow, the gruff posture of assessment,
the snap of guard over blade. When played attentively, a violin
is all the vowels of a woman’s voice. That was my vocation:
symphony of one sound. Choosing to change makes
my body no less a collection of poorly folded wings.
We are kindred, yes, because I have made it so; because
down the street the ballroom is full of dancers we could
never be. We lead each other to water, cup the mirror
in our hands & drink.