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By Audrey Cobb

I think maybe the red string of fate is really just a leash;

an open-handed captor,

the willing captive.

Tightropes like parachute cords carry a

trembling breath between molted skins

and some inevitably snap in the wash cycle that follows.

No tether is perfect, even

the thick ones they use to tie up big cargo boats will stretch over time.

I know what your favorite shape of pasta is,

I know you watch Glee when you’re lonely and can’t sleep,

I know when you lost your first tooth, and that

your mom keeps in a Ziploc bag

in a safe

in her closet

like a fossil.

I know how many steps there are between my doorway and yours,

and I also know you’re late because

you stopped to help

the stranded worms on the sidewalk after a hard rain.

I wish you would pick me up with a leaf and lay me back in my own dirt.

But I know what it means to be galvanized too,

and I gladly accept

what it means to be lonely

instead.