You were the last –

I sewed on your button

and knelt to drink milk

la petite bergère

to say goodbye.

You ordered ships to American

shores, sails arching,

backs gripped by wind, jagged,

open mouthed, dressed

in shell-thin silk.

I projected onto the plane

of your equator, solving

for time, the curvature

of palm to nape,

the position of invitation, the snare

of the sun.

Name your daughter

for the Bastille,

for the moon –I fell

in service to the king.