Consolation

I don’t know
in the world’s great house
we were raised in
different rooms
maybe
and passed on stairways
you along the wall
me already more than half way
over the railing

Was it then
we began
sending each other pictures?

I was wearing
the shirt you made me
The way the sun was
you couldn’t see my eyes
or so you say
I remember
the far edge of the garden
when you turned toward me
There
above your outstretched arm
the Jacaranda
lifting its
pale architecture

Oregon
you say now
you’d go that far
For the children
And tell me I can have
what’s left of the beerglasses
these four tin plates
equitable distribution
according to the laws
of California

You slam the trunk lid twice
calling me poet
po-et
like that again
but delicately
assure me
God will bless all those
who sail in me
before you drive away

2 Comments

  1. Pedinska says:

    This is filled with heartache, but lovely.

    • Thanks. Intimacy is such a difficult thing — knowing when to surrender, and under what constraints, comes so naturally to some people. They’re the ones who make the world go ’round, I suspect. I’ve been privileged to know a few of them, ordinary enough people blessed by who knows what kind of grace. The centering aura that seems to surround them is unmistakeable, a magic that makes for happy couples, happy families, and the ability to see through all sorts of provocations to the essential truth of relationships. They’re a rare breed, though. The rest of us screw up, realize it belatedly, if ever, and even when we do realize it, can only seem to atone for our failings by cultivating the elegance/eloquence of our regrets.

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