Her, mostly

Her, Mostly

Birds unwanted at the window,
The night spent wholly up with her.
Trails through a college bar,
People withdrawing into little spaces,
I following her, following me.
Later, the sun of graduation,
Gowns black,
Her hand clasped in mine.
What memories make a love?

A suit case and other possibles,
The click of a door as it closes.
The tone of the dial as it calls,
One, two, many.
White lace set perfect on the bed,
Of a hotel room, Her, mine.
A zipper undone, a dress parted,
The chenille bedspread pulled back.
Later, the mile markers of a roadtrip,
Cars passing through the window,
Of my car,
She down on me.
What partings make a love?

A desert now, imagined,
Somewhere with no moisture.
Words written and sent,
Increasingly explicit.
A picture from the bathroom,
The double vibration of the ringer,
Bum bum, bum bum,
And my face desirous in the screen
As it blacks.
If love is made of images,
Can it be remade later?

All this is there around you,
In that last and final scene:
The sun to shine or no sun,
The cars passing or no cars.
Whether there are birds
To chirp or not to chirp.
Ours was a playground, but no
Playing. Winter playground.
Now, it is only the collage on a screen,
The awful collage that will not fade,
But blinks,
And remains.

Of all these things,
I remember,
All the images that surrounded her,
Memories, partings, joys,
But of all the objects that make a love,
I remember
her.
Her, mostly.

More: Poetry

[The photo above, I took in Los Angeles in 2013]



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