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I read Maggie Nelson’s The Argonauts in one afternoon, lying on a rock by the ocean in Damariscotta, Maine. When I finished the book, there were pine needles in my hair and the tide was almost all the way out. The bared silty shore was freckled with the small signs of bivalves breathing. I thought I didn’t know a book could be like this and I also thought I needed this book. I went home, made raw nettle pesto, and thought about the wild work of transformation, how sometimes it is so slow. And sometimes so fast. I thought about what it’s like to want something you cannot see—to have your only guide be the wanting. And then I wrote this poem.