Sometimes I tell them
it was on a sun-drenched shore
and you came rising
out of the sea wearing
foam and algae and
seashells, always seashells,
a school of rare fish in your hair, too.

Other times I joke
you fell from the stars
and straight into my arms, with

pieces of cloud about you,
your skin all heaven-scented.

Once I even lied—
pretended we entered this world together
something like Jacob and Esau,
except I was holding onto your
hand instead of your foot.

But most of the time
I just tell the truth:
I don’t know how we met
I just know it was in a past life