I used to wish he’d lay
a hand on me, to
hold or even thrust me
down into the ground 
as though I were a 
shovel with a sharp
edge splitting the earth
to make room for some-
thing to grow
up
in a tortuous glory
of green and 
amber light. 
He never did, of
course. No bruises
we could see, but
a waifish vine 
ascending by
itself.