The insolent crow of your hair
perched atop the luminous trunk of your neck—
which grew, greenwood
out of me—swoops, screeching
down your back, defends
your isthmus
of newly discovered wilderness,
the narrow land of you
against me.

Your hair
is a flock of memories tethered to your scalp,
your body an island I have spent
your life discovering.
Once you fledged, bright hopping robin,
flew the length of the garden,
would go no further. I buried
my face in your down, breathed
the fading milk smell of the babe
who flew back to me.