Text
These days, I never write
about you without talking
about your leaving
but once, I loaned
you a book of poems
and you said you liked that
the author started so many
pages with I read that...
So, I read that
the moment you retell
a memory it collapses on itself,
only a remnant of a reality
less true with each recollection.
And I wonder if I can recall myself
to you enough times to bend
the truth you've decided
making my postcards, keepsakes
you long to hang upon the fridge
making my lips on your spine
a thing you can't stand to lose.
So, sometimes, I write
about the way you'd sweat
condensation beaded
on a warm glass
too much to wrap a hand
around that smooth slick
surface.
How I'd compromise by
holding you with my whole
body, all the while envious
of the journey water
got to make.
Maybe once, about that
morning we kissed and kissed,
eyes still sleepy and closed
until you had to take the late ferry.
All clumsy limbs and hair
in the face. All silence
and hot breath, until your
first whispered word all
all morning was yes.
Sometimes, over and over,
I write about the way you
blushed watching me touch for
ripe nectarines.
How I reached only with hands.
Eyes shut and pressed my
fingers gently feeling for
sweetness
Mind busy on the memory
of you complaining about
that time I held you naked
in the mirror
you asking: how can you
have my body in front of you
and keep your eyes closed?
And I just laughed
telling you
There are some things
seen better with touch.