Imaginary Moats

The anatomy of our hug
is a rose coil, causing spines to arch rigidly
around touch – dumb-stricken 
in the chase for each other’s silences;
smothering conversation to collars.

We needn’t open our arms wide
for shapes so precise
but our lungs deflate for that second
our past has tabled, weighed
its unbending law
upon our chests.

Until we disentangle, recollecting
whose hair pillowed whose chin, 
which hand patted whose shoulder,
who convinced or fooled the other;
the thousand nevers
and defences we’ve dug in.

The anatomy decays
on days
I breach its perimeter.

© Ryan Pratt