And then came an evening – as though it had been walking towards her

for years – her body stumbled into

its own shadow, letting go, irresistible, its only pastime, over

and over, each man’s absence

handed her back to herself – waking up in the night, hungry

to be alone, to find only the moon against her skin,

desire’s heat, invisible in cold water, a kitchen burn,

numb without his eyes. Past longing (a chrysanthemum

wilted, curled up to dry) scattering until all

that remains, one beckoning gesture and the top button,

undone, of her wool dress still hanging

in the closet – the dress she wore in his arms, holding

rain and cedar, the echo of his fingers, the stroke

of his voice. Touch, still another

country, a place she lived with no one, lived

with him – her breath buried in his cotton

shirt, his leaving part of the landscape, colors turning.