To love is to tell the story of the world. There was
an ocean with a boat mountains a meadow too painful to stare
at directly. Haven’t I been here before? Yes. No: not quite here.
“It is not as if,” the philosopher writes, “an I exists
independently over here and then simply loses a you over there.”
In the mist, a man rigs the Suzelle, little red boat.
Loved labored for months, learning to tie the right knot. The exact
and only knot that will keep the vessel tethered. She rehearsed
for the worst possible thing. “The attachment to you,” it is written,
“is part of what composes who I am.” I know/knew
those hands, hers. I watched her dust the sourdough with flour
at midnight a moon between her fingers. Gone
went Loved. But the half-world of her in me
was me. It was lit by the moon.