Said she was tired of watching me shapeshift
into my pillars of salt. Packed up her gardening
gloves, her tool belts of queen anne’s lace
& dental dams & shorter press on nails.
Left the picture frames, took the polaroids
of the Atlantic Ocean & its pale green chorus of yes,
the opera that would bloom beside the algae, how
every animal could make a meal of its captured
light. I tried everything; tracked her instagram reels
to Puerto Vallarta & Costa del Sol, where she drinks
strawberry daiquiris & falls in love with fishermen
& never thinks about the conditions of her quitting,
the dark room or the hands that brought us there,
or how after, I took off my mother’s ring because
I couldn’t escape her luck, but down the street,
the ramshackle houses are hugged by the shore,
& in the sub-tidal nets, even the bivalves, the most
guarded & barnacled of us gleam. I am trying to be less
foolish. I don’t know if forgiveness finds us when
we deserve it the least. Sometimes, I get postcards
from desire. They say I do miss you, but don’t
mistake that for me wishing you were here