And she thought of herself
and found only
confusion
in a generous
landscape.
To leave, she said,
as another word for dying,
and one day you ask me to come back
and I can tell you yes.
There is no mountain range
outside this window,
no mother’s embraces,
no father’s embraces,
no garden with oranges,
no corn pie
on Sundays.
Return dates
and questions asked
with urgency.
I don’t know what to tell you
on streets that no longer exist.
To leave, she said,
as another word for dying,
or starting over,
or both at once,
or neither at all.
I have no childhood memories
of imagining this life
in this corner,
with no mountain range beyond the window,
with snow up to my knees,
on a dark night
lit only
by the whiteness
of your face.
