Love Story
At the summit of our 60 years togetherwe were driving back and forth to the hospital,and he said, at a light, in a voice too small to be him,You’re a nice person. I could hardly see.And two days later I stood by my mother’s bedsidewhile he raged at me profanely on the phone—about what, I still don’t know—and I hung up lightly.And a few days after that, or was it weeks,he said, in the voice that was way too small to be him,Can you ever forgive me? Or maybe that was yearsand years earlier. In a book, it might matterwhether events were in their proper order,first things first and last things truest,and all things said by the end that should be said.But love is not a story.
Happy Hour
And then…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, January/February 2024