to a boy

I would have loved you
for her sake.
I would have walked with you,
arm in arm-
kissed you in the rain,
moved across the country
and laughed as you built a picket fence,
while our children-
who certainly didn't get their red hair and freckles from me-
watched Daddy hit his thumb with a hammer.
But I didn't know you then-
and someone may already have taken the job
of loving you.
And she may have liked that person-
respected and accepted that person,
perhaps in a way that I can only hope she would have-
could have accepted me.
So perhaps...
So it doesn't matter.
I didn't love you when I could have-
when I would have
for her sake.

recovery

You'll come over and talk to me,
when you get tired of conversation with the rehab man.
He'll tell you to leave me alone.
He'll tell you I don't wish to be bothered.
He'll say I chose to sit here-
at this table,
in this chair,
with my back to you-
for a reason.
He's right.
I did.

I had resigned myself-
however long ago-
to staying away from this place when I knew you'd be here.
I had told myself that this was a place
I couldn't visit once the sun went down.
But I grew tired of spending my evenings
at home
trying to entertain myself
living vicariously through those who spend their nights here
like I used to.

And, once I realized that you were no longer forefront in my mind-
every day - you - my waking thought-
you - the blurry idea as I drifted off each night.
When my thoughts were elsewhere-
on someone else-
and the memory,
the longing,
the happy grief-
and I was past you and your words
your stare
your desperation that made it hard for me to breathe
and speak-
when you were out of my daily mind
no longer with your hands,
innocent in name only-
wrapped around my neck,
I could allow myself to sit-
at this table,
in this chair,
with my back to you-
for a reason.

Now,
however much later,
I can sit at my old spot
with a book
and a pen
and a thought-
a thought I've not had for some time-
of how I don't hate you
because you aren't cruel.
And I know, as I sit here
at this table,
in this chair
with my back to you
for a reason
that you are watching me-
waiting for an excuse to walk past-
make accidental eye contact.

The rehab man tells you I'd rather not be disturbed.
You should listen to the rehab man,
he knows what he's talking about.
You know that.
But you won't-
you don't listen.
You beg for how it used to be-
and I sit here and wonder
how long I will have to stay away this time.

You beg.

You are such a woman.

The Sophisticated Lady

I loved her -
truly,
truly loved her.
It was never physical,
never romantic,
never reciprocated.
I was in love with her
in the way we fall in love
with future versions of ourselves.
I would be graceful.
I would be warm.
I would be daring,
genius,
hilarious,
revered - respected.
And now-
as I am the future version of my past self-
she is gone-
no longer a physical reminder
of all I have to accomplish.
And I remember
as I am a past version of my present self-
that I love her.

Red*

we talked last night,
she and I.
Well, I talked,
she listened.
Well, I talked,
she stood there.
I spoke and knew she saw me,
but did not speak to her.

I spoke to her last night,
years ago-
when we were both in the same room,
and she told me how happy she was-
proud she was
of me.

We spoke yesterday evening,
years ago-
when I had moved on
and she had stayed where she was for now-
but was almost ready,
almost ready to go someplace warmer.

We spoke yesterday afternoon,
years ago-
when her hair was strawberry blond
from the Florida sun
and she told me how happy she was
for herself.

I spoke last night,
last night-
when she was away from me-
away from all of us.
And I knew how happy she was
that we knew she saw us.

*accepted for publication at amphibi.us

sentry

Look out-
look out past the shore,
past the water
and waves-
look out
past the rocks
and the sky
and the gulls.
Follow them
past the skyline-
look out
and follow the trail that they leave.
Look out.
Look out.
Walk on and look out.
Stand up
barefoot on the shore
in the water
looking out
to the sun
and the blue
and the white.
Sink down
as the water-
all frothy and freezing-
rolls over and under
and back out again
and leaves you there
standing
camera at the ready
looking out for moment that begs to stand still.

ticking

Just one minute.
That's all I want.
I ask for not one second more.
Just one minute-
of quiet,
of rest,
of calm.
Then I'll go.
I will.
I'll leave after just one minute.
Can't you afford me that?
Just one minute.
Just one more chance to look
and blink
and remember.
Then I'll go.

The English Woman

The air smells like coffee and city grit
as I wait for you,
trying to busy myself with letters-
letters I will never send
to people I will never know
written on fancy paper
bright and immaculate-
an interesting juxtaposition
against this backdrop
of a notebook
precariously balanced on my knees
and the sidewalk that sparkles
beneath the dirt
and grime
and gum
that all survive the rain
and the wind
and the snow
and the more and more people.
But you arrive and I remember me-
no longer lost
in the stories these sidewalks have to tell-
and we walk
away and off the grid
to where the city runs into,
around,
over itself,
to that cafe I can never find
unless you're with me.
We sit,
over coffee and a shared sandwich-
you tell me that you think-
as many others also do-
that it seems I love you.
I don't.
I'm sorry,
but it's true.
What you see as my attraction for you
is only admiration
and awe
and a sincere interest in what you say.
And you laugh,
and blush,
and look away-
stammering.
I do not want to be your lover,
I'm perfectly content as your colleague.
I do not require your love-
or even your affection.
I only desire to talk with you more
and more and more
about Charlotte,
Anne,
Emily,
and George-
and our shared adoration
of these remarkable women.