The first time I refused your hand in marriage,
we were celebrating our one-month in an AirBnB
somewhere in the Willamette Valley, lying together
in a shepherd’s wagon turned lover’s bedroom
with the space heater on high to keep the chill of April
in its proper place. We went to bed silent & unsexed,
the cries of frogs in the nearby pond lulling me to sleep
as they kept you up all night with their fairy song.
In the morning, ducks peddled their feathers
in a cool stream, the rabbits in their hutches knelt
as if in prayer, & the farmer held my hand
to a newborn lamb while you watched, arms crossed,
through the slats in the barn. I used to think leveret
meant knife, but now I know it’s just another word
that means too young to understand. In the valley,
you held me up to the light: delicate lacework of veins
through the anemic skin, the caul over my eyes.
Only you could make all the creatures hush
with one step in the milky straw, only you could lay a hand
on my face & tell me the wetness I felt was not blood.