What do you remember? When I
last looked at her, she was someone
different. And before that? She broke
her wrist as a girl; it never healed
quite right. It was a comfort to run
my fingers over it-- bone pushing against
flesh. Polaris against dark. And

before that? She showed up at my door
with a handful of white roses, blushing
pink. But you loved her? She had
a really good dog. But you
loved her? She wore perfume to bed,
and smelled like geraniums in the year of
the plague. And before that? Her mother
never stopped drinking.

Is that what she said? I knew better than to ask.
Her lips formed a peculiar shape when she
thought hard enough about it. What
did she tell you? Here, these are the petals,
dried and crushed like confetti. Here is
the proof that it was real. Do you still

love her? I have good eyesight. I know
what hides in that field, hoping it never
gets caught. What do you mean? Sometimes,
when I’m alone, it appears.