A cabin rented by the night up against Petite Rivière high with the fulcrum of change, thaw. I start a fire. She unpacks the groceries. Enough food for a week.
Two nights, two days, catered to our senses. The river is loud. We meet it, release ourselves into this in-between time.
How do our bodies define love in this spaciousness? Sap collected from the maples. Crisp air as I hoist the axe to make kindling. The axe so large the resistance is in my body lifting it, not the wood splitting.
When did you get back together?
As though we changed our clothes one last time; as though we crossed a finish line and blocked the cameras.
I have spent so much time in the city the river’s steady rush sounds like forced air heating.
We sit in the bath until our skin swells, reaching toward wide open.