Blue Willow Moon

one strains to tell if memory’s foghorn is real or if that’s simply the sound that memory makes.

I was not alone, that much I know, though no one was with me, gentle swells, mists tearing and repairing,

and all the fine gradations of grays like melancholy made visible, holding its holy like a secret for the end.”

How we began, though, was almost as if it were already written. The details of how we arrived

at each other, to say I love you even as we fall asleep,

to let each other’s name be the first sound we utter every morning, can only be a gift of careful construction,

a design of an elsewhere where we were already together.

Saying nothing, you make me want to live more meaningfully.

The world is so wild, beautiful, and terrifying, and everywhere we turn, a new atrocity.

Then, I close my eyes and picture joy. Among things, there is this day. Among faces,

there is yours. And I am no longer afraid.

I watch you in your own, quiet moments, and I want this life. I want this life

to be longer. All I want is more time with you.

I love you. This is the only way I know how to end.”

My whole life, I think, I will use for describing you.

What do I know outside of words, which despite their history and combinations, are too few and short for this life.

I don’t know if I want heaven, but I know I want

to be where you go—”

left to hold onto. Never was. Though I felt it,

though I thought I could, though I believed

you were mine. Though I borrowed you. Though

we borrowed each other. Though we own nothing.”

I am tea-stained, pearl and gold, blazed

with the oil of your fingers. Everywhere you

touched me is the whole of my body. The breeze

holier than dogwood:

Sorry I was not the one you needed.

And you were never mine.”