Literally—

I unwater the pasta and steam
crawls up my arm, under a sleeve.

So it goes how it often goes: my chest,
a clear vial of warm fog. I navigate despair

in cyberspace.
reCAPTCHA makes me type in “Broken Heart”

to prove I am human. I stalk you

in two worlds and undress the silence. Still,
I made the bed, made the pasta and the promise.

I sat at the table and waited for you
to say grace. I counted the blessing

even though there was no proof, I gave thanks.





(The title is Sappho's fragment 38, translated by Anne Carson.)