the keeper writes a slanted hand;
fine nibbed copperplate tracking
imagined lines of pink and blue.
In lemon juice; this archive
of unprovenanced vows, misheard
names, missed cues. Some day
she may rip out the pages, lay
them flat, heat up the iron. For now,
invisible; the lover picking out
her name on snow so white,
it looked like truth; unbending
wedding lilies, pearls for sorrow,
tangled lace. She leaves space
for days and dates; mislaid,
or folded small, in drawers
of long sold, white lined boxes.