for not shutting the kitchen
door all the way.
The summer you learned
who was dealing
what. You were
applying to programs,
your pointillism, neat
in ink, when
a wind disappeared
your drawing.
You looked for it.
I looked for you.
It was the summer of one
color—I won’t tell you—
of holidays
that didn’t fall.
Easter was always sudden
as the flu.
I remember
the tracks, that rock
I’d never—
Way to Blue
and your van that revved
without key.
—There were stories—
Minnesota, Pennsylvania,
states ending in A. Dark magic
and your family
of anise, born again
with a Yamaha
on your lap.
We drove to Poughkeepsie
to hear the locals
pronounce it.
I delayed my calypso,
words that ended
in vowels.
Your mother prayed
for my weeping
and never—
Somewhere there was
a meal for two consumed
by one.
You blamed your sugar.
I blamed you.
