To Us Ericksons

Travel to the mountains
and tell me what it means
to fill your lungs with ice and air,
rocks, dirt, chasms, hills,
and tell me
there’s no God
again.
Cradle me and whisper warmth
from a fire that’s not yours,
then wrap me in a blanket,
nevermind I say the wool will burn,
and throw your heart
beneath the pot,
again.
Paper your walls with memories
when paint worked as barriers
against the human thunder
we didn’t want to hear,
and don’t tell me you
don’t think of me
when you see one
again.
Fly away to coastal lands,
with careful weaves of lacy life
you so carefully nourished,
and tell me it wouldn’t matter
if you looked back,
because family is leaves
and you’ve planted seeds
again.
Moss scented vapors
in a mountain desert,
summer, hallways, 64,
I only ache to think you don’t know
the breadth of our memories
of sheet forts, daisies, Iceberg shakes,
but bury your heart in snow
again.
But I’m the weird one.
I’m but one.
My aching is a selfish one.
I already know, so don’t tell me
when I try so hard
to not speak.