This is not a poem for B_,
or her other redacted twin,
like the others I have heaped
and stored on microchips,
abandoned handrails, caught in the
chattered teeth of change-drawers.
Small poems made of her.
In rooms of her. Onto orchards of her.
Look, I cannot even finish her name,
only cut an outline.
I sit here. I remember. I wait.
For word of her. But
How much more skin can I say of skin,
and how much more darkness can speak
of its homesickness? She is never the
that bespeaks herself,
the crow on the nearby branch, or the
swallow I have never seen cry,
from a river I have never seen.
This is a poem for that woman,
what it scarcely makes of her.