Pulling

Should burdens fall softly,
balloons nudging and noddling

their way from your shoulder to the floor;
should feet flutter struggling from their nest of shoes;

should ribs open out like fingers spread
in a “hands-off!” gesture to the flickered sun

(I've read about snakes that fly
by flaring their ribs into glider wings);

then, only then, I'll sink my hands
into your breathing hair and pull them out:

whirring thoughts, pulses of flame,
tendernesses that have no name.