Your clothes know me for the cartographer I am. New body, new wrinkles, new belt notch, not ocean floor spread smooth under your shirts. A hemline was the deepest trench between us. I've listened long years to the earth, hand-drawn her secrets, learned a body's curve is sometimes just a curve. Maps impose meaning despite the territory. No more your eraser to my markings, no more your soundings, unsound theories, targets of ink jars I threw. No more you, Bruce. We were no easy X, unmarked spot in a society lacking lat and lon for life-long colleagues oppositely sexed. What's left, bereft of you, is me. Not draftsman, woman, wife, but scientist.
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Mary Alexandra Agner writes of dead women, telescopes, and secrets. Her latest book of poetry is The Scientific Method (Parallel Press); her latest short story appears in issue 5 of Bastion Science Fiction. She makes her home halfway up Spring Hill. She can be found online at http://www.pantoum.org.