If I hadn’t asked who you were having dinner with that night
I wouldn’t be crazy lost now and you wouldn’t have moved to
Connecticut with an eyebrowed cooking woman: something I would
If I hadn’t asked if you liked sleeping alone maybe
we would have grown accustomed to each other sighing
into our dreams, a hip teaspooned into a hip, yours so much
fuller than mine, sailing on into the night, no navigational devices needed.
Bacon for breakfast.
If I hadn’t read her emails maybe I could have forgotten the alert messages
coming almost daily into my cerebral cortex. Messages telling me the ice was
thin though it was late summer.
If I hadn’t asked why you were leaving maybe I would still believe you
did love me though now I see all I need to do is be silent and I’ll
never learn that.
To be published in the Cape Rock
Published just now in The Round: the literary journal of Brown University
I’VE FOUND HER LOST AGAIN IN ME
In the dusky, damp hour of summer when wine
is poured and in the distance neighbors
bicker over their barbecue, the husband saying
it’s not his job to clean it and clattering
the domed lid over
five pounds of grade A beef.
The wisteria, desperately holding itself open
to possibility, and the dogs roam barking, their
tongues sloppy with grass. The birds, repeaters,
warble from tree to tree, trying to vary their story,
back and forth, back and forth, so bored with each other.
In the yard a pool filled with azure water, an aquarium of
tears, piss, semen, a pure rectangle, a holding pond of life,
there, lying on the surface, on the great,
pink, plasticized, inflatable swan floating unguarded,
there’s a girl. She could be 19 or 70. She’s listening to
the opera of summer, writing a bird libretto, her fingers
holding the minute hand on the clock of time, suspended
by the undercurrent of oboe, she knows she’s different.
She feels every rhythm.