it isn’t in black and it isn’t
in any tree even on that day the first bud cracks
i’m not it
and nor is he
and the space between us isn’t
even when it’s festooned in words like bunting
it’s not in butter
or inside any tear even if it’s on the rapist’s own cheek
it’s not in thought
or in space between thought
(like that happens anyway)
it’s not in not and it isn’t in nowhere
so where is it ?
if you look you’ll see it
right there on the goat that nearly died
it’s in the line of her sister’s neck
the way it curves reaching to tuck and claim
to pull it down into her own
it’s in the ‘s’ of those necks linking
which says
you are and
i am
and we are
and this is how
we fit
and don’t you dare
ever
to let that happen
again

 

 

 

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