Archipelago

stood for odd, forgotten moments,

memorable only when they blew away.

That was a few missing socks ago—

before the line let slip away

moments when the body was porous,

when I was warm skin and milk for another

when the wind snatched from my father’s mind

who he is and who we used to be.

That was before a virus turned us

into warm and gracious hosts.

The line curled around our sweet gum tree,

making the tree seem central to our lives

when it was not. I need a new

clothesline or sturdier imaginary

clothespins or a new metaphor—

one that holds our whole sievelike bodies

and the fictions we keep trying to contain.

I need an image for what we are

when the body abandons the ego.

An archipelago? See that lovely chain

of islands resembling the points

on a connect-the-dots activity for a child.

The eye can join the islands or see

scattered masses of land that a tiny hand

has not been drawn to—

has not picked up a crayon

to make a through-line through them.

Just let the little islands be.