The sun’s out, for once
and you still hurt so you go
to the hammock and ache.
Through the layers of tenderness and scar
something is nestled against your ribs
(instead, outside, immaterial here)
and you cradle her, care-swaddle
this past you, infantile,
synched to your heartbeat,
moulded to your body like a newborn:
you have to go back
to the start, to begin as she deserves
cherish and continue,
until she has been loved
her whole life. You breathe slow for her
as she dreams a new memory.
You wonder how to go on, how long,
if you will ever be free. Ever rest.
The breeze has stopped but you’re still swaying
low and slow between the trees,
and you can feel the future in it,
your elder-bear self, one massive claw
hooked delicately into the weave,
rocking your hammock like a cradle,
you love, you will love,
you become beloved
About the author
Toby MacNutt (they/them) is a queer, nonbinary trans, disabled artist and author living in rural northern Vermont, USA. Their prose and poetry has appeared in such magazines as Strange Horizons, Liminality, and The Future Fire; their collection If Not Skin was published by Aqueduct Press. You can find their zines on twm.itch.io or more about Toby and their work in various media, including writing, at www.tobymacnutt.com.
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