Ronda, Spain,
heat caught in stone,
your laugh echoing off the gorge
like it knew it would be remembered.
some pregnancy, perhaps,
a phrase held lightly,
as if saying it too loudly
might make the future flinch.
July on Enders Island, forthcoming,
days stretched thin as salt air,
nothing urgent,
everything important.
portrait of winter out west,
light slanting across distance,
cold enough to tell the truth
without cruelty.
between us unraveled,
not a breaking,
just threads loosened
so we could see the pattern.
below your uprooting,
roots exposed,
soil still clinging,
learning what stays when the ground changes.
living in DC with you, forthcoming,
an address we haven’t memorized yet,
already folded
into the word home.