Beloved

BELOVED,

you gather me. I am not petals, though I have eaten wildflowers on greens in that  glow  particular  to  the  other  planet,  as  Miłosz  described  it,  that  is California, where I walked through salt and fog and found Mary enshrined in chalk  on  a  gash  of  rock  and  watched  the waves devour themselves ’til my phone died,  so that I was forced to rely on the generosity of strangers,  and I did take a photo later of said plate, marveling while sending it to you from the aloneness I’d traveled there to make something out of. Please send a photo of your  face.  Is  it  not  my  purpose  to see where, exactly, laughter has rivered around the eyes I adore?  There was a donkey in Petaluma with a soft, steady gaze.  I will not turn away from the ache of this world.  I’m trying to feel my feet. Let’s cry enough to submerge, up to our ankles at least. Don’t keep your grief from me.