She captures autumn
in a jar
reads the moon's straying
through leaf and branch

Always in love
with love
and always reeling
from the loss

What wave tossed this refugee
ashore?
What alignment
of stars and planets
of uncountable galaxies
brought this woman
to this world and not another?

A simple truth will tell.
The moon at high tide
hides beneath her skirts.
A slight disturbance
in the silken fabric
of space and time
and all is lost
all is born.

I hold my hands out
palms up
in prayer and thanks
every day
to mark the blessing
to place a peg
in the whole.

Given to all
denied to none
and mysterious to most

Life pours out of
a hole in the sea
leaves nothing
and everything
to chance.

This blessed world.

there are a lot of boys in the world.
and some of them wear your work shirts
and some of them wear his cologne
and some of them laugh like you
or peer through your eyes
at my drunk,
sliding lips.

there are a lot of boys in this world
who have your hands -
maybe gentler,
but same intention
running down my back
and under my jeans.

there are a lot of boys -
and some variety,
but all factory built
with the same core.

My dresser drawer still smells like you.
That's why I always keep it closed.
I do not remember what you smell like,
I also don't remember what the hell is in that drawer.
That's close to meaningless considering
I somehow still remember your birthday,
and your middle name,
and the way you like your noodles cooked.
I hate that I have such a great memory
and I love when I forget,
because I worry you forget that I existed.
Like a bad dream you once had,
you've grown out of it.
I've grown out of you,
and maybe I've grown out of the shirt of yours
still sitting in that drawer.
I guess I do remember what's in that drawer.
I hate that I remember,
but love that I forgot
the way you smell,
because smelling is tasting,
and I could not bear to taste you once again.
The aftertaste of regret still lingers
when I hear her name.
I wonder if she tastes like me.
Like me,
the me I couldn't be.