To love you is to know this mountain,
this river gorge, made a space for you
at the edge of a landscape scathed by wind.
Columbia River gorge, where glacial floods
uprooted trees, carried boulders
far away from home. A mountain range cleaved
from summit to base. To love you is to know
what remains. You brought me here on our first date.
As we walked, you unbuttoned your blouse,
wind-blown. The scent of chamomile.
When the plane went down,
carrying your mother, your father, your brother
you heard the Shema, sound of a struck bell.
No bodies, no goodbye. Today the river,
far below us, shines a molten silver.
Wild strawberries line our path. You pick up
a white stone, a perfect disc. It glows
like a full moon in the flesh of my hand.