He was the tumble – night-work
masterpieces with all the lights on.
Tomorrow was days away. Toledo Whiskey
and “Yesterday” played.
Tomorrow came and went. He stayed
long enough to take all of me with him
that last time he left as I stood watching
his taillights disappear at the top of
the hill, kicking up road and promises,
making me sure he was in a hurry to return.
Blood moon – red ink rise.
Your voice – symphony.
Your conversation – cayenne.
Blue Moon Rare, you Mozart me.
It’s closing time, and tonight has
Alone with you,
there’s a peacefulness
in too far gone. They told
me about you, but not
about the effect, not that
I would succumb.
The days will come as they do
when our hearts are morose,
not from the winter, but from
our winter – those endings,
those flowers too far gone to
misgivings from a life. And we
will need to look ahead as if
spring, as if youth, as if
our births were our heading.
My eyes were unaccustomed.
I heard the lapping water,
the sun throwing itself.
I took off my shoes and
waded into that bright
glistening as though called
from the far shore, feeling
the silk of silt between my toes.
I don’t know how long I stood
in the water. I just remember
my father placing the worms
on the hook while I chattered
the silence away and all of
the fish, thirty-five years ago.
I’m talking to him from the shower
in a raised voice that isn’t morning
though it’s still very much morning.
We’ve been married two years today.
“Have I ever told you that I love you?”
I call to him. He stopped answering
that question moons ago. He calls to me
asking if he should pick something up
at the market. Turning off the water,
I say, “And you are?” He doesn’t tumble
to that one. There is silence as I dry
off and comb my hair. When I enter the
bedroom, he looks surprised. “I’m Suzie.
I’ll be your waitress.” He’s smiling reading
his phone. Now I’m in my lace bra, half
slip and heels as I walk over to him. He
says, “The Nikkei finished up.” “You talk
so pretty, cowboy,” I say holding his face
and kissing him. He places a Burma ruby
on my ring finger. “I thought you forgot me.”
He says, “And you are?”
Two blue herons fly away.
The lake gives itself to
the moon as a distant
radio borrows our song.
Tomorrow we’ll harvest the
last from the garden. Summer
will follow the robins.
And soon through the
bedroom wall a guitar will
compose songs of the city’s