Friendship

The pasture is full of ground-nesting birds, so we walk its edges; whatever we circle becomes the center of our lives. Hills ripple in all directions and we count the months since our last meeting, the decades we’ve known. Our talk winds threads of memory and ambition through threads of change and rage. And beads of hard-won wisdom. We pause and make knots in the grass. Friendship does not sell expensive dresses or fill gift registries; it reminds us back to ourselves. This is dangerous to capitalism and patriarchy so we have not been given words for the way we love one another. There are no laws, no vows, no stones ready-placed to help us ford the creek. We wander back and forth, we chart the currents and use what we can find. Forever, alongside—your unfolding, my solitude. We splash and leap and point to minnows until our voices grow hoarse and animal. We snort with laughter, bodies speaking without touch or language, mirror neurons wheeling like the hawks overhead, dancing, weaving, humming.

Ceridwen Hall is a poet and educator from Ohio. She is the author of Acoustic Shadows (Broadstone Books) and two chapbooks: Automotive (Finishing Line Press), fields drawn from subtle arrows (Co-winner of the 2022 Midwest Chapbook Award). Her work has appeared in TriQuarterly, Pembroke Magazine, The Cincinnati Review, Craft, Poet Lore, and other journals. You can find her at www.ceridwenhall.com.