We remember imperfectly, thank God;
you across to me; me across to you.
Still some measure of sympathy, I guess:
parity, we realized early on,
is one sure recipe for disaster —
You play it just right most times; the raised eyebrow
to friends—endearing girl-Sancho to
my Quixote; anecdotes that might charm
my abuses; qualified forgiveness
sadly granted in perpetuity —
Can lean on that sort of thing forever.
Silver anniversary, gold metal,
platinum record—win it all baby —
Your face reflected in the mirror as
you wait to get on the pot in the morn,
and suddenly I’m remembering the
freaky sex we had all the way back then —
Don’t much care for the effort now. “You should,”
I sometimes say, “think about exercise.”
My eyes, in my face in the mirror, are
on you, you just know it. And you are right.
No longer have to look at each other.
Hear each other, if at all, in delay.
What do we do with all the time we have
left? People are living longer these days,
don’t have to die angry. And us, maybe
we could be “us” again; rekindle and
reaffirm. Through art, through sex, innocence
manufactured or built upon burnt ground.
Twenty-four years on and warm days still call,
blow over the bedsheets in the morning,
your ass thrust into my back, some estranged
husband across the way waking his ex
with a hellish clangor—and a Taser,
reports later said. Guess he wanted his
love to lie still. Still, I look at, love you.