My baby sings me a blood-song,
runs down the thrum & heft
of our skin. My baby's a mirror-
girl: nobody loves her like I do,
no body loves me like she does.
& we say te amo & not te quiero.
We harmonize our favorite tunes -
always melody sewn over a howl -
we keen through the dimness
& she doesn't say anything
about the cracks bad lungs
& worse longings left in my belt.
She never makes me small.
I'm her mountain, boulder learned
to roll uphill just to meet her.
The nails in me & the chains
they bound me to, I left them
at the bottom. It's good air up here.
I sing my beloved a ballad
of wonder, whispering through
sunbeamed veins. What a miracle
it is, the fact of us.
To be alive, to have rolled
& refracted to this moment,
light & stone togethering a pan
to warm the future in.
Alison Kronstadt (they/them/theirs & she/her/hers) is a writer, youth worker, and anti-partner abuse advocate currently living in Boston / on stolen Wampanoag land. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cosmonauts Avenue, voicemail poems, and Bitch Magazine, among others. When not writing, they can be found as close to the water as possible. You can find them on twitter @flalymagee.