The way skin loves the scar
that remakes the skin into itself,
that is the way I love you.
I love you the way I love
driving on dirt backroads,
the way I love walking in the dark—
unsure of where I am,
unsure of where I’m going,
so the slightest movement
requires my whole attention.
I love you, though I am
a barren peach tree
with nothing to offer
but the memory of when
there were peaches, ripe and sweet.
And love is a glove
filled with holes
that still fits.
And love is a fountain
that doesn’t care how many
coins are tossed in for wishes.
I love you the way I love the space
where the cottonwood used to stand—
how the air there will forever be
the place where the cottonwood grew.
I love you the way
the rain barrel loves the rain
that doesn’t fall.
I love you because
not loving you
feels like the worst fate of all.