The Never That Was

Posted on 09 November 2009

I have not one picture
of us taken in Barcelona,

or Carcassonne; none
from the Mediterranean

summer when you rubbed
my bare skin with creams,

carefully around the areolas
so they would not burn,

or of you in the morning
laughing and gesturing

with the old French couple
standing in the sea casting nets.

And at dusk you fed me summer
fruit with your woodsman fingers,

and we drank wine as though
we’d stolen into a still life.

I close my eyes and see you
leaning pose-like,

pressing a calloused palm
on the stone of the cathedral.

In sun-filled rooms,
beneath cool sheets,

we aligned our naked bodies.
‘Blackbird fly blackbird fly’

you sang until I fell asleep–
We met for the first time

the following spring.
This is verifiable.

That you were always with me
is truth, as well.


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