A River that Flows into an Ocean
And then, to wish
a part of it could remain,
or to have just a little more time— a feeling not unlike shame or regret, but more nuanced,
a soft stain that, within it, holds a kind of beauty,
as if by the errant brushstroke of a watercolor.
*
In spite of myself, in spite of it all,
I still look at your pictures, I still live in the memories of morning walks
to the bodega, the ginger shots we drank under a cherry blossom by the Hudson.
What remains? Memories of our sundrenched bedroom,
watching you lie in bed, your nakedness like an answered prayer, an image in my head of my tongue between
your parted lips, humming your favorite tune,
a frame in which everything within it becomes a portrait.
*
Long ago, now, it seems, I found freedom in the most bizarre
places: the man slumped completely over, having nodded off on the
train, or the man, sitting across from him, looking upon him with
disgust, all of us, it would appear, dependent upon something we
could lose at any moment.
*
What remains? A spare key to your old apartment,
a letter you wrote to me on a cocktail napkin, a poetry magazine—
from which you had removed the back cover and hung above your desk, a memory: it was almost Spring. We stood there
by the pond, watching the soft droplets of rain make concentric circles in the water,
expanding slowly like single notes from a piano in an empty room.
That night, drained from another of what we called miscommunication, we were both feeling empty, tender. Was it curiosity—the way
you had looked at me, or was it contempt? In the end,
I suppose it was all the same. We asked no further questions.
We went home. We sanctified the day
with our love. The soft light of the moon waned to nothing but a sliver.
***
Author photo by Kiran Bath
