Postcards

ANEMONE BEAULIER

1.

It’s clear in my mind, 

the morning you left: I was too sad 

to kiss you well.  

Coffee and Kundera in hand,

you were sharp in your pressed suit. 

You looked back just once 

before your dark head merged with the crowd.  

2.

Tomato soup and toast 

for supper.  One cup and one spoon 

in the sink.

3.

I sleep in the sheet on which we last 

made love, wrapping myself 

in your sweat and semen 

and the black strands of your hair 

knit to the cotton.  

4.

Our mutt tips her head 

and wags her tail 

each time a car pulls into the drive.

5.

The bruise on my breast, long

as your lips and blackberry dark, 

is fading: magenta edges 

melting to yellow.  

6.

Your sneakers sat by the door for days, 

muddy from your last run.  

Bits of dried dirt flew 

as I pounded them on the porch.

7.

I twisted a sealed jar of olives 

until my palms were pulled red.  

You could have opened it.  

I pushed the jar to the back 

of the cupboard. 

8.

The roses you sent

are edged with brown

and crumbling.

9.

I am forgetting 

you: the smell of your scalp, the width 

of your fingers between mine

on our walks to the corner store.

10.

I cannot sleep.

The blackened orange of city-night

slides through the blinds’ slats.

I sweep my fingers across

empty spaces. 

11.

When you called from Prague,

your voice was hollow as fog over the crackling 

of trans-Atlantic lines.  I can’t remember 

what you said, just voices  

in the background, the click 

of disconnect.

• • •

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