We leave behind a language, travel back
to where her name began, a country split
in dialect she never learned to speak.
I want to smoke a cigarette, she says.
It’s quiet now. Her hair is wet with rain.
I lie in bed and watch her watch the storm,
the empty street below, remember when
my heart was still a broken compass, lost,
the needle spinning wild or stuck. I missed
her then. I missed her toes, the flecks of paint.
I missed her taste, unfolding lips, champagne.
She’s here, I tell myself. I smell the smoke,
the storm. I wonder when her hair will dry,
the flecks of red will fade, and hope they won’t.
