The earth is rocky, or else 
 silent.		There is no word for the sound 
        a frozen lake makes.
	   It groans.

In her memories, you are pancakes.
Bananas, chocolate, maple syrup… 
the butter licked right off your thumb.
She calls it “the pancake memory” 
because everything precious 
		deserves a name.
You disappear behind breakfast; 
an eclipse gobbles up the big ole sun.
		Are you still there?

          In her dreams, she remembers being 
   a glass of water: half thirsty, 
	   half terrified.
The pancake looms as a  black  bright  hole 
where people, places, things fall out,       go 
		away, 	never to be found.
        If she tries to utter your name now— feel 
            the claw, the choking, the muttering,
            eat a naked girl whole after the black cooks her.

The air  about her brittles;   breakfast 
no longer fills. Once  upon  a  time 
you would say, “every puddle 
on dry land needs a cognomen,”
		your prickly lip 
pressed against her cheek.
If she is rainwater, you are sky zenith 
peering over into stagnant still.

	In her days she shouts from the door 
          as if to retrieve something the wind has taken.
                She doesn’t know why 
        she looks up so.
If only she could follow you to that place,
               where the sun goes when the moon has stolen it.