Everything but

I have been the waterline,
sea-foamed and sea-frothed,
the ankles of the West Coast,
rib bones and wrists of the East,
the sinew where the whales
made echoes in the heat.

I have been everything but yours,
have known more about the Revolution
than your skin, more about the
road atlas than the back of your hands.

There have been years
worth talking about between
our place mats, but the water glasses
chat instead, they slur sonar songs
in the evening while we watch silent
mashed potatoes squirm on our plates.

I have been the branches across
the plain states and belts of corn
pulled thin at my roots and deeply rifted
in my joints while you crossed them
by train, looking for someplace
where no one thought to ask questions.