When I think of us
the sky pinks between tall grey buildings,
we sit by the water’s edge
tell each other about our hard lives.

City unfolds. Heavy cars
head towards some August weekend.
You peel the label from your dark beer.
Wrap your arm around me tight.

I’m drinking Boon’s Farm from a Styrofoam cup.
Head thrown back. Eyes closed.
Afternoon sun closing up across my face
and my heart soft on you

like a white flower, a breeze.

When I think of us
my body does not reach back
to touch you. The landscape of your body
is not spread out across mine

and for the life of me
I’m not wondering
if I’ll ever see you again. No.
Let the records show: instead

I keep to the company of my husband.
Nights, if the cat isn’t in heat,
all mouth and misery, we sit
on the screened-in porch.

He reads the paper. I rest my head
on his shoulder. Think of nothing
but tomorrow’s laundry.
Wrists scars buttoned

beneath my summer sleeve.