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Me and You, April Fool's |
We made love on April Fool’s
Day, and you told me as we woke
to the unfurling out of each other’s
arms the next morning, “I thought
you’d be gone. One big joke.”
I laughed. Holding hands, we kissed,
and we kissed again months
later by the ocean. Rolling invocations,
the Gulf of Mexico stretched
out its thick arms, blessing the newly
married couple. Six-and-a-half years later
we kissed for the last time. Unaware.
I want to remember your lips
heavy on my forehead—a benediction
to our failed marriage—but I fear
that’s a lie, and I must contend
with the hundreds upon hundreds
I told you already. This growth pains me.
It’s no joke. I smell leftovers of home
when I smell motor grease on hot hands.
Sometimes, the red in Pearl Jam’s
“Better Man” takes aim, and I feel your arms
curved around me like the moon—maybe—
that night in New Orleans, red shifting
around us as we danced, ignoring
prophetic lyrics. I’m never not folded up in
gowns of memories, all ill-fitting,
one too long, another slit up
past cellulite to hips supporting
emptiness. If only I could stop
ceramic owls from whispering,
“He’d like this.” Stop sugar skulls chanting
your name through square teeth. Stop
memories from drifting in on swells
of a green ocean. Its name? April Fool’s Day.
copyright 2019
Dani Raschel
Jiménez |
