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Dear John

DEAR JOHN



We heard the wolves’ howls shredding the night
while the pines showered their needles on the snow,
And in the fogged morning I didn’t want to face you 
(I was too bitchy; I didn’t have my first cigarette).

In the exertion of waking up “good morning” sounded irrational;
made me think that marriage had too many words – 
words that came out like glazed ants from the dream hills
and you danced a kiss on my cheek to peel off the numbness. 

Drinking your coffee you watched me over the cup’s rim,
and through the steam you tamed my caged lions thoughts:
you told me that climbing the Everest was not a good idea,
because I’ll be stuck in the Death Zone with stiff memories.

You were starched when I wanted your touch 
and I pulled away with anger of unfulfilled fantasies;
 you smiled over my chafed ego – just a crane to lift my spirit – 
and refused to play hide-and-seek with me as a caress. 

Checking the weather channel for snow,
you talked about heat, the price of propane rising every day,
and you were faithful, tangling your life into mine,
but not desiring other women was as if you didn’t desire me.

You planned the day, and made me forget a land
with many short blizzards and dry long summers,
and I forgot the meaning of the first tearful memories:
words of love I had said to people I don’t see anymore.

You didn’t get angry when you saw the credit card bill,
just said casually that I had spent too much money at the bookstore.
Counting the last change in your pockets you showed me 
how to put my pieces together as if I was a child’s puzzle. 

You acted as if you knew me, but I didn’t.

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