i. Meeting.<\/p>\n
She was shopping for oranges.
\nI was holding bread.
\nI nearly dropped it,
\nthe lightweight loaf
\nno longer forefront.<\/p>\n
I watched her trace rings on
\nthe waxy rind, waiting
\nfor the man with the scales
\nto tell her their worth.
\nI knew her then.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
ii. Recognition.<\/p>\n
The first time she sees me,
\nwe are crossing a busy intersection
\nin opposite directions,
\nand our heads swing like magnets<\/p>\n
as we pass each other.
\nI am worried I am dreaming
\nor that she recognizes
\nsomeone over my shoulder<\/p>\n
but it is inescapable.
\nI rewind to that street corner
\nto witness
\nmy life changing.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
iii. Bibliography.<\/p>\n
I study people’s bookshelves
\nthe way others snoop through
\nmedicine cabinets.
\nHers is a library.<\/p>\n
The specific spines I
\nwill see in mind for days,
\na color-pattern memorized<\/p>\n
in order, size, hue.
\nI take the blue book from<\/p>\n
her bedside, read while she sleeps.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
iv. Explanation.<\/p>\n
I am in love with her and But Science will exhaust us both.<\/p>\n Instead, I study sunlight <\/p>\n v. Past-Present<\/p>\n I reach for her hand, track <\/p>\n vi. Ethereal<\/p>\n I want to burn all the pictures. There is a space in between her ribs I know her heart expands by the day. Some peaceful resignation floods me. Martin, she is not yours. Let her go <\/p>\n vii. Now After<\/p>\n She was never fully gone. She is always, never gone <\/p>\n Threads<\/strong><\/p>\n I have snagged a thread and it unravels, <\/p>\n Untitled (But Mostly At Sea)<\/strong> <\/p>\n I have a secret<\/em>, I say. I have a secret<\/em>, I mention. I have a secret. I try to tell him. He asks about the rate of waves, <\/p>\n
\nI want her to explain it to me.
\nIf she cannot,
\nI will take her to a scientist, and ask:
\nmeasure the love in her bones,
\nthe peace in her heart.
\nI need a sample to keep.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nmapping mountains across
\nthese rumpled sheets.
\nThe air refolds around her
\nas she breathes,
\nevery exhalation
\na little death.<\/p>\n
\nits orbit across the table,
\nthe half-moons of her nails.
\nAll the faces she has touched are
\ncaught in the ridges of her fingertips.
\nEvery man is a fossil in her figured past
\nbut she sheds skins faster than springtime.<\/p>\n
\nThey don’t capture the woman I know.<\/p>\n
\nwhen she lies and settles on one side.<\/p>\n
\nI know her love is greater than this.<\/p>\n
\nI cannot explain in words, except:<\/p>\n
\nlive the immensity of her life.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nShe was never really here.<\/p>\n
\nand is still.<\/p>\n
\ntaking with it the form of wool, the use
\nof the garment, the old perfection of its seams.
\nThe sweater is no longer. I’ve worn it threadbare,
\nnights and months on end, until the pockets
\nrip and all my dreams fall out, cascade
\nonto the sidewalk. I leave them there and walk away,
\nashamed to collect the mismatched pairs,
\nstooping over failures and markedly disparate
\nshares. My present has been unfairly used.
\nI trail the thread behind me, centuries long.
\nIt all unravels. <\/p>\n
\nThe boat’s hull tips with the weight
\nand release of each step’s next shift.
\nAs he turns, I catch it: the tell-tale
\nlift, brow raised sky-ward,
\narms stretched,
\nslackening sails.<\/p>\n
\nDoes it go well with a packed lunch?<\/em>
\nNo<\/em>, I confess, salt would be better.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nHe whispers back to the window,
\nan icy pane that keeps his breath
\nlike misted shroud
\non distant mountains.<\/p>\n
\nwhy water laps at port and prow,
\nwhat patterned tide our wake will drop.
\nThe water’s darkening<\/em>, he says.
\nI have a secret. It ebbs. Keeps.<\/p>\n![\"29286_544951466026_29502049_32377189_3724827_n1\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/11\/29286_544951466026_29502049_32377189_3724827_n1.jpg\")
\nABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong>
\nEmma Bartholomew<\/strong> was born in London, England, but has grown up on both sides of the pond. After getting her B.A. in English and Philosophy from Muhlenberg College in Allentown, PA, she completed an M.S.c. in Creative Writing at the University of Edinburgh. Emma is currently living in Savannah, GA, but will return to Edinburgh in 2011 to begin work on her PhD, focusing on poetry and cartography.<\/p>\n
![\"29286_544951466026_29502049_32377189_3724827_n2\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/11\/29286_544951466026_29502049_32377189_3724827_n2-150x150.jpg\")
I have a secret<\/em>, I say.