By Danielle Mitchell

Your body must anchor to the desert in him. The white
windmills & earth broken into salt. He will build in you a
shelter & name the place retreat. He will hate himself for
going there too often. You must become a continent. You
must become a country with many places like this to hide.
When he puts the knife beneath his pillow you must take the
knife & put it under yours. There is no answer for this. He will
never be full of you. In the wet dim he will ask why he goes
on each night. You must show him your glowing figures in the
distance, how you point the way back into each other. You
must hold his shoulders down & never say what happens
after. Your body must sail in him. You must fill the sail. Watch
him go.

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