35/365: These Are Not Yours

boots and spring mud

I'd love you wholly,
pull you right up inside me,
into the muck of me, the meat,
into the wet dark
and keep you safe and warm,
cook you until you're unquestionably done,
but that's not how this works.
I require more of me than that,
my muck and my meat,
my wet dark:
they are not here for you,
never wholly,
not even if I long
to pull you subterranean.
These are not yours.


I am writing one poem every day in 2016, and I am using the hashtag #365poems to document my progress.