You were my first
covering, the blanket fort
I should never have crawled out of.
You covered me
perfectly, in that way that only magicians
understand, in that way that
makes fairies into companions.
Your covering was a quilt of
beauty alive in you,
a stitching together of everything
that is good and everything
that is important.
I should never have let
exaggeration pull me into a lie.
My foolish fingers shook off comfort
like snake skin, like old dust
on the cover of a library book,
and I turned my back on your shelter.
Only after I had introduced myself
to a “do it myself” world
did I realize I had stumbled
to a place where
I could no longer hide how naked
my fragile skin had become.
Suddenly when the rain fell,
it cut me in the face.
I tried to hide beneath the fig trees,
afraid of my open existence, afraid
that you would be as broken
You followed me always completely, but
even your love
required death to rest
upon my shoulders.
I wore it like a cloak, constant
reminder of my foolish
I want to crawl back through the branches
to the cool of day where
you and I walk together and
we hold hands and point at clouds.
You are the only comforter
who can find the truth of me
beneath the layers I have uncovered
and the distances
I have tried to run away.
So turn me back into a child
and rearrange the furniture. I will
sit in your lap if you
will play with my hair and pull
the blanket that is you
around me. Tighten the softness
until I no longer remember
what it means to be lost.