It’s Not My Affair

 

The last time, I closed the storm door and forgot 

                                                              to lock it. 

Any copper inside was already green 

or gone.          

                      Wind struggled against the screen. 

It knew,                   somehow.           

                                                           You called 

a month later,        

                              said I’m your man to care for. 

Remember the gibbous wobbling on the lake? 

                Like the funhouse bone of a ghost dog 

Over my cousin’s wedding reception,    it waned.

                We walked away          from the pavilion, 

seeking other cover. 

                                                The band echoed 

through the oaks, reeds and sawgrass, the gravel 

shore where we sat on your jacket,         kissing 

                    as if throats kept abandoned wishes  

and I hadn’t said

                                                 I love your smile 

after the garter landed                    on your head. 

 

It’s all right, I replied              before hanging up,

checking the lock for rust, groans,        swelling, 

                    any sign             that lies         leave 

when we exhale       and linger

                                                  to risk exposure.