“winter always follows”
There’s a man painting the door
to my soul. It needs repairing,
or at least redressing. And I see,
scrawled on a napkin, slanted
prose inside the bathroom stall:
“Warning: this is broken. Handle
with care, or the cover may come
off!” I find humor in this sadness,
passing my reflection on the dingy wall.
I saw your baby sister walking
down my street today. She wore
the sweater, no expression, that ties
me (physically) to an afternoon on the
rocks of
beautiful (as he does now. Do you still?)
in your sister’s sweater, with orange
sunlight making my teeth white, blue
water, moored boats, my jeans ripped
wide, until smoothly flowed my thigh,
framed in fabric, from which you became
unwilling to release me. Now, you look away
when I pass. Call a dog, laugh with
friends—too loudly, with too much gusto—
and I bury my face between scarf
and book of poetry. I await my newly
crowned king. He stoops to the
bench, and kisses me. I watch
--wearily—as the color drains from
your face, across the fountain.
It is a small drama, before I retreat
to the cool, damp trees, to remember
and repeat the thud of language
in my mind. The place where my
mentor was married is the same
place where I made my final stand,
told you that you were deceitful,
and had (in moments) treated me inhumanely,
and, that knowing all of this,
I sill loved you desperately. The place
where now a blonde girl, and
a brown boy hold each other,
listening to rustling leaves that will
fall away soon, and make the trees
bare, broken, beautiful—to sway,
ill-at-ease with their deathly lot,
knowing spring will come, with
new love. But in the memory of
their rings they keep my secret:
winter always follows, with its bereavement.
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