A strong wind blows away everything that isn’t staked down, and now I find that I have lost my garlic eyes, my mushroom ears, my basil hair. Maybe it was an illusion—we were Theseus’ ship, or Lincoln’s axe. I am aware that we consisted of unlike components, which were tethered together precariously by longings and fixations, and also by a certain kind of love. Colors shift as we delete each shade of gray. Next to go: this cauliflower cheek.