I address you as if a chorus,
each voice silky and prized
but all
singing the same song.
Our fascinations still
move a bow across
my spine
though nothing went as planned
and the buzz-killing
moments can't be swept
under the rug.
When you fell asleep
with my nipple caught
in your mouth,
the gorgeous cello
of your back
no longer mattered.
And when
you did not fix the sink
you broke with those same
helpless hands that
flew along the metal strings
sweet as feathers
on Leonard Cohen tunes
while I paid a plumber,
the way your neck widened
at the shoulder and
then narrowed
and widened again
stirred me less.
I will forgive the yawning
when I read you my poems
if you
forgive me for casting
myself head first
into life
without you.
And if my refusals still sting,
remember
it was not they that made
our fortunes
but what we did
next.
Let’s forgive.
The best and worst
of times now seem more
myth than matter.
At every crossroad, we followed
our own disappointing dreams.
And there was mercy
between us:
afternoons on your boat
under setting suns,
our bellies up.
