No other woman could pull off
that wide gaited swagger
you wear up the street;
your smile as jaunty as your twenty-year-old leather jacket
(the jacket cannot entirely cover
that hideously lurid Hawaiian shirt).

That jaunty smile, with the slightly crooked teeth
on lucky days leaving
hickeys and bite marks
in unmentionable places.

I pull you into the leathermen’s barber shop
I explain to the bewildered barber:
“Daddy needs a haircut.”
You look so sharp: I cannot bear to look at you.

Your steaks are more succulent
than they have any right to be;
impromptu al fresco dinners
fresh baguette, piave or havarti or parrano
merlot right from the bottle.
The sun sets into ocean flame.

I watch you swagger
down the steep street
to the diner, where our small table
overlooks the ocean.

You contradict my order,
telling the waiter I am not allowed
to have French fries and banana cream pie
he obeys you, rather than me.

You slip a five into my pocket
dropping me off at the train in the morning
for coffee, before work.

I watch you incessantly.
I dare not close my eyes
against your skin, I dare not
breathe
I dare not -

for I know with the prescient whispers
of a child who has lost too much:

you are not mine to keep.

I watch you swagger,
my heart breaks.

02/15/2011

Posted on 02/16/2011
Copyright © 2024 Gira Bryant