Small Treasons

Somewhere, a body moves across
another without harm, as if taking a
knife to the sky, & we can answer
when a child asks where the world
goes when our eyes close.
Somewhere, we are sorry; I assume
for our silences. Bones ache & char
& must burn, somewhere. Even our
ghosts have left us. There must be a
place where hands aren't cages &
cages aren't gestures well-
intentioned but failing. Where we
love with more than body & hurt &
know when we have hurt. Some-
where, a less flammable history,
at least where the sparks fly upward
before falling back to ash.