I read the pieces and for some reason, "The Empty House" resonated with me and brought this to the surface. The other influence on this poem was a line from a fellow poet's work that I blogged about here.
An origami heart, black sheet shining
with creases. Other thumbnails
scored you long before you unfold
to me. When you write, the pen
draws new runnels in your skin, ink
bleeds along the seams. You carve
a path through dark woods,
an allegory for something that glistens
like sap along the inside of your thighs.
You ask me to listen with the patience
of stone. I swallow pebbles until my belly
swells and I carry the fear
like a borrowed fetus. But this
is a story of absolution, the tale
transformed by telling. Tomorrow
the forest floor will be papered
with red leaves cut in the shape
of stars and trees will cast no shadows.