Pact

for Holly Roach

When we found the thread again

it was like nothing had ever passed between us—

no immense blocks of concrete no

broken limbs hard as plaster no

slammed doors, stubbed toes

or hotel rooms,

no shrinking sensation of withdrawal

in that strange Thai restaurant

with the colossal exotic fish,

no moments of mutual effort fallen short

like some geeky junior-high high-five.

Just that space in which we’d sprouted

out of ourselves

younger than grass

blinking with the residue of the womb;

where we’d stood together by the lakeshore

and recited ancient mantras we’d made up

on the spot, given ourselves

pseudoIndian spiritnames,

vending machine horoscopes and hyperventilated visions

strung together with brightly colored bits

of prognostication, without distinction

between the Tao Te Ching, the SAT,

and the submerged map of the US, 2013.

We knew better only because

we could imagine it.

Before we launched, we made a pact

it would take the rest of our lives

to fulfill.

We have.

We will.