When You Forget Me

with thanks to Pablo Neruda

the past is a poor broken basket,
woven by hands that had no muscle, no song.
When you forget me, every word we spoke together
just before or after slow first light, lips still wet,
– doe, heron, stone, prayer – erases itself
from every language, as if never spoken. Extinct.

When you forget me, dream of other women,
offer them the dance of your heart, recline
in a meadow, drink red wine, seek another woman’s
blush, what basket could hold all this desire?
I’ll gather black maidenhair fern stems, redbud,
bear grass from our sacred places; I’ll harvest,
split and dry each piece. My busy hands
won’t miss the obsidian outline of your face.

When you forget me, that river where we first kissed
won’t stop flowing down from mountains older
than desire; when you forget me, the forest that cradled
our creation won’t burn down. Some things last.
I’ll remember what they are, one by one, as I dye
my bundles, start the coil, fit weft around stave.
I’ll remember how to make a life out of fragments,
how to splice so skillfully, no visible break remains.