The Lovers
1.
You’re twenty-two, kneeling
in front of a bookshelf. Albums lean
drunkenly over each other,
mingle, flirt. And the novels, heavy
from too much ink, give way
to them. I barely recognize
you, blackhaired and smirking.
That T-shirt from a street
vendor says we loved
in London. In the negative space
of the graphic, against
a screenprinted mountain,
a man looks to a woman
who, like me, looks to the sky.
2.
A woman who looks like me dresses
in front of the window. Her back
is scratched to tattoo, Mercury
and six stars in cygnet. The music is so loud
mismatched furniture moves aside,
leaves her turning, turning, breasts
exposed against a field of chipped
and peeling paint. From my voice,
you can tell I’m searching
for a way to ask how late
you’ll be, and if there’s water,
or time, where you are. You cradle
the phone. I draw the shades.
3.
In the mirror, you trace the half-moon
of the scar, ask me if I miss the piercing.
I lie, and like a cat, nudge your face,
go back to bed. We talk through the wall,
so thin and yielding for our sake.
Me in my skin, counting the cost
of these many years’ love. You saying
yesterday, at the farmer’s market
you saw a man like Raphael,
held out by the sun, selling salves
for healing. Me, remembering rain
and cigarettes, and their way of
needing. You, coming back to me.
