My body records the moments of leaving
like a crease in the street collects rain:

A bare shoulder. The smell of vanilla from an unidentifiable source.
Mexican legends spoken softly

in the backs and fronts of moving cars.
I will eat spiders hidden in the nippled ends of bananas

and my voice will bend to find you a thousand miles away.
The spine of a cypress.

Like a fire in the mind that feeds the heart
a certain kindness.

Something like love, and not so foreign anymore,
and nothing like failure.