isn’t this, but is. The comma, for emphasis

because his life is immediate down to his nesting,

small breath. We quit speaking once,

when the syphilis was back, during winter —

never snow touching the ground. Only semen,

coconut milk licking his lips.

I told him This isn’t it — we’re at it again

and the moon is out tonight. I could see him,

[A strange girl.

She wanted to be a pilgrim

and so ate salt for three days.

Now she knows how to be vast

and compassionate. And yet she too

will be drowned in the sea.]

[At the burning of offerings

inside the room we appease the ghost.

Lift up our arms

and watch the women around us

turn into birds.]

[Who are you to talk of a woman’s breasts]

[I have been left in warm sand.

From plume to basin, molecule to mortar, this flawed forgetting

flows, this cascading remembrance claws, clamors. And maybe

I was built to forget the topography

of your nose so I could remember the next

man’s eyes, coins I collect from corners

and floors to leave in crumbs at the bottom

of my purse. Maybe I was built to forget your tongue

on my thighs, your shower towel, how it soured

my nose,