I still remember how you smelt
The afternoons here
that azure morning we pulled into
the Ramada Inn to speak of wood
nymphs, princesses. I pulled
a stone from my pocket, a naked
goddess in a tree. You laughed
since that's what you were trying
poorly to say. I flipped backward
in my seat and looked at you through eight
dollar sunglasses, your fingers
strumming nervously on
the dashboard. I looked
young then, in a shirt bluer than
your eyes, than the Gulf.
The black tee you donned each time
you were down was creased against your
skin. I recalled how you felt under
that shirt as you stared at the mockingbird
hunting insects in April grass; its newspaper
wings reminded me of something
I wrote about virginity
gone sour. I touched my thigh
and looked at you. You
didn't look back.
That's how I remember you, you
know, hands on the wheel,
looking away.
(First appeared in Dithyramb)
Remembering Wynd
are like mornings - a girl passing
mentions "Much like London."
I think of that picture of you,
standing so alone in Europe,
your thick chocolate hair
horizontal in the clouded breeze.
Stonehenge was colored
cerulean, so small compared to you.
You gave that picture to me the day
before I rode off into the flaming
north, my world prepared
and packed in cardboard castles.
And I wonder where you are today.
If you are still sitting on that ledge
by your purple window, fingering
the stars with wishes. Or painting
your face for more plays I've never
heard of, playing characters the cultured
would recognize. Certainly
you've given up your drive-thru diva
routine and are about rich enough
to buy yourself a silver car, destroy
that eggshell world, and follow me
north. Or maybe you're still
that ungainly fifth grade girl with glasses
you refuse to wear, sitting on the swing
reminding us that we're too old to be
here. We should be stars
with planes and men. I'll write,
you'll act, and we'll move into an old English
castle with stone walks and rose trellises.
Maybe you've cut that cinnamon hair
on a whim, as you did last March,
so I could run my fingers through it
but once, before skin. Maybe you're still
the same girl I left, going through life
as air through autumn limbs. But mostly
I hope you've become so large
that you've forgotten about me, and the swings,
and perhaps even Stonehenge. Because
you were too old for all that. And I,
well I am just becoming
too young.
(First appeared in Aubade)