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When mapleleaves glow red, I will write you

to know myself; I will write us to uncover

your roots, grafted neatly into mine.

You scarred me lovingly – wrote

long scions into the curve of my trachea

for remembrance, bound the wound tightly

and waited. My throat aches each time I speak

the syllables you embroidered through

my language, and I want to know if you feel

identical pangs where I marked you

with soil and blood and grammar.

I used to think I lived alone within my skin,

but I cannot write without finding you curled

there, leafing out within my sentences.