I see you, clear
as the Negril waters, where, once, I took a nap and awoke floating far beyond
the safety buoys. I panic. Then and now.
I see your face,
dark like the soil in my father’s herb garden – seasoned, rich with a promise
to sustain. I am walking away, but waiting to see if you’ll grab my wrist and
shake some sense into my gin-soggy, hipster-chasing one-track mind.
I sit too quickly
when you pull out my chair. I blame you with my eyes, cutting. From the floor,
I contemplate taking your hand that is outstretched and reaching for me.
When you lay your
wool, fitted sportsjacket over mud puddles, I pretend not to see it and,
avoiding it, step, then, fall – deep - into a hole that I cannot seem to pull
myself out of. Ever.
Dec '13
