You would walk the bleeding
edges of this dormant wild

garden barefoot in March before
it begins. You would cross

mud-seeping stepping stones
surrounded by sideways-growing

moss

down the slope
onto a winding

woonerf he dreams up
for you in the middle

of the night. You would risk it—
leave the safety of city lights

to see a waning
gibbous moon glow again

in the distance. You would travel
by helicopter or Cessna

to the island,
and you would pay the fare

in quarters. You would not care
if he were watching

when you took
the amphitheater stage.

You would not need
to interrupt the bare birches

swaying in tear-jerking wind.
You would shout:

“Let no more bridges collapse!”

to the dark sky
before diving into the cold

black water below,
fully clothed this time.

You would embrace the spellbinding
amnesia without sipping a drop.

The blank wall and empty floor
(and the taunting,

white space between)
would not stop you

from entering the beautility
shed, despite all that

fear you carry
like a concealed weapon.

You would have answered
him by now.

You would have told her
you know. And you would have

listened to the bells
of Notre Dame

ring on the anniversary
of the fire without asking why,

or running to the nearest
cellar door. You would let

your heart pound
till the scent of incense

calms your nerves.
And you would refuse

to be forced to defend
your atheism on this Saturday.

The day after, or the day before.
You would whisper,

“I will build a new one.”
The fish would come to you,

and you would know how
to feed them.

You would be singing by now—
if you were brave.