Monday, June 10, 2013


I am so glad I haven't lost this poem.

I would retitle it, but I think that alters it in an uncomfortable way.


                       our saturday

i awake
beside another
shower without you

drive into the city
and share your strawberries

it begins to rain.
we begin to walk.

first to the newest memorial
where i begin to cry when i say "thanks"
to a man for whom appreciation
isn't enough.

the rain stops
we stop to rest, to kiss, to revel in the sunshine of each other.

we wander through the orchids
of someone else's garden

join hands and lips
during the next museum
where you observe,
"green is the color of envy.
it's also the color of deterioration."

then to the market
you buy me my two least favorite flowers
and because you don't know
and because i am so grateful for the gesture

i immediately inform you
that white flowers wilt quickly

so be sure not to touch them.

i marinate our dinner
while you nap

when you awake
the pillow lines have left behind
dimpled flesh

i laugh
you echo my tones
and gaze deeply into
a part of myself i've forgotten

i no longer own.

-16 oct 2004

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