Broken

Had I known the anthropologist better,
I would have

 reached across the table that morning.
Doesn’t a brief touch

remind two people they’re alive?
Instead, I’m sorry

you’re going through this. This:
His father’s death.

What was his name? And the shape
of him changed

 like a forest tent caterpillar
I watched as a girl,

a living creature slowly coming
closer. His voice,

its suddenly slower cadence
burrowing in my mind.

His words about his father
making me more known

to myself. I wasn’t sure
what was happening.

I kept listening. I wanted
to repeat

 what he told me, not because
anyone needed to know, 

but because he put his finger
on a drifting island

inside me, and his gentlest touch
recorded unnamed land

on a newfound map.
Oh, I am safer

on a search. Afraid of being found.
What did I want?

 Him, as a friend? 
Or to use him?

 I reached for this pen—

Originally published in
Louisiana Literature, Fall 2022