by Allyson Donato
We wrote our own legend by lying
still. Further apart, they would have separated us—
if I had not lifted this finger closer to your head, reached 
for those playful curls, the twist above your eyes, 
the whorl behind your ear, we would never have become 
an attraction. Found, we became 
found objects, subject matter, a title. The diggers
suspect we were posed, revised to be a love story. 
They can’t know how still we remained 
together, smoking stone sauna rocks under our feet,
fog inside our mouths, teeth shaken loose.
They imagine we are meant to look
like we were meant to be. Young lovers
fossiled into embrace, white bones, missing 
joints. Our sinews have curdled into dust.
We were covered with vines and olive pits, 
fresh earth with old roots. The gods of war put down 
their swords, and the man who prepared our bodies? He had dirt
under his nail; he sucked his thumb after closing our eyes, his hand lingered
on your shoulder, he closed his fist around your wrist—
he softly let go, a rope released. 
We had breath of vinegar and nectarines once. We turned 
our heads to each other and away. We nodded once 
for yes, shook twice for no. Those who unearthed us believed 
we were posed unnatural, north to south. We are left 
and right: you became a bookend, I became a bookend, our backs 
became leather wheels, turning and turning the story of then and now.