Found in Willow Springs 83
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When you came close enough, I wore you like a raincoat.
Black lakes, big hands, a party
you ignored me at. When asked to define dreams
you drew a circle and wrote FEARS
in it. I kept your baby photos, empty bottles
in my wine rack, kept reaching
into my bag for a hole at the bottom
I might’ve missed. They say trashing magazines
can do the trick—get rid of what does not bring you
closer. I cut the mouths out of advertisements,
blacked out
nearly everything:
You a lake
you
you
You at the party and I call and call.
If I were a street sign I’d be
No Dumping Allowed.
But I’m not a street sign. Me at the bottom of a hill
and you with a dog and he’s pulling on you to
Let’s go. We used to make collecting
a habit, our cups in the cabinet, stacked
by season. In summer I used to drink from your
Christmas mug, but now you have it.
