The Knot Outlasted Us

At the bottom of the drawer: some quarters, a dead AA,

a photo strip from a booth we thought was clever—

and underneath it all, the bracelet. Hemp. The day

you tied the knot, you said: leave it. It'll sever

on its own when it's done. We both wore one.

I moved three times. It held. I can't say who

cut it—you or me—but someone was done

before the cord was. That much I know is true.

One end is fuzz now, fiber gone to soft.

The knot itself is still exact and tight,

holding its shape the way a knot does, aloft

with nothing in it, holding nothing right.

I held it over the trash for longer than I should.

Then put it on the counter.

Went to bed.