When She Passes By

after Caitlyn Siehl’s “Her, Her, Her”

I met you
sputtering
with her name on your tongue
and the bass beat of “hurt”.
There was a road wrapped tight around your body,
cities popping up like scars out of flesh,
well-worn and rugged.
You called them “her”.
I called her “gone”.

I met your mouth
with a clash of teeth
your tongue lodged down my throat
with a taste of her.
There are shelters in my hip bones and
hostels on my breasts and you come to each
like a weary traveler begging for rest,
reaching for blankets that look a lot like bodies.
They are not “her”.
You say “someone”.

I meet you
years later,
with a boy on my arm
and my heart beating “content”.
He tries to introduce us but you say
“I know her.”
There are skyscrapers sitting in my palms and clouds rolling in your eyes like we have made it to that city, our city, just to watch it downpour.
You tell him “Keep her”.
He tells you “I’m already gone.”