Poetry

“I Love You”, he said. “I Love You”, I said.
We met up in an old city in Mexico. So old, you could
smell the anachronistic earth through the staunch stone.

“I Love You”, he said. “I love You”, I said.
He held me so very tight. I held him tighter.

“I Love You”, he said. “I Love You”, I said.
He was wearing my favourite blue button down shirt, with
the thin white stripes.

“I Love You”, he said. “I Love You,” I said.
He was thinner than I remembered. The air was dry. I had a tickle in my throat and tears in my eyes. He sat down at a sturdy wooden, beat up table. The kind that lasts forever. I sat across from him on a low leather cushion. Looking up at him. He was concerned about his health. I was concerned I would never see him again. Our fears matched.

“Love You”, he said. “Love You”, I said.
He stared at my hands, avoiding my watery eyes. I was fiddling. With a gold cross that broke off when we hugged.
So tightly.
I reassured him. As I had, always.
Don’t worry,
my subliminal craving domicile.
He got up. Sat next to me. I didn’t resist the closeness. Our faces almost touching. He looked at my lips. I looked at his lips. We held each other, for the last time.
“You,” he said. “You,” I said.

“Oh, but no. Don’t go.”

I want to decorate our fresh Christmas tree.
Remember, we walked down the mucky frantic New York streets.
Remember, the Canadians selling the Fraser fir.
Oh! The smell. I can’t. I’ll weep.
Remember, we carried the tree. Pinched by the branches.
So happy was that tree to be collected by us.
I want him and our son to string the 500 white lights.
I want to direct him. I want him to get annoyed.
I want our sweet girl to discover the prettiest ornaments.
I want all the ugly ornaments to be banished!
I want, so badly
to place the bridal white tulle under the tree.
I want the tree on a cloud.
A big fluffy cloud in the sky of my son’s day dreams.
And finally.
I want to set up the ceramic crèche, handmade by Assunta.
I want our girl to place cotton over baby Jesus.

We wait. For midnight. Footsteps in the snow.
The bells.
The sleigh.
The plate of cookies.
The glass of milk.
The carrots.

I want I want I want

I cease want. His haunt suffocates.

The shrine in my mind is where I lament.

“You,” I said. “You,” he said.

This life’s work teetering.