Halsted M. Bernard

I saved what you gave me, that night
in the secret courtyard. I wonder
if you remember what it was.
You joked about stealing a cobblestone,
too, but they were all cemented down.

As your hand crossed the streetlight’s beam,
I watched your tendons move.
I could have encircled your wrist
with my long fingers,
if I only reached out.
Your pulse would be in my grasp.

A foghorn behind us sent a dirge to the sea.
We passed two trees that grew together,
peering at the lace of branches
to see how it was done.

I know we know how it’s done.
I know you remember what you gave me:
that bit of lavender like a fingertip,
a nub of summer, before our first kiss.

I blow kisses at your old apartment as
the street looms in my rear-view mirror.
My fingers now feel only steering wheels,
black pens, cold blankets, warm tears.
Nothing is the same now
and I don’t want it to be.
I know you know me.

The afternoon you left, I came home
with your scent in my hair, and looked
for the dried lavender in my purse.
I knew it wouldn’t be there;
I know you will.

© 2003 by Halsted M. Bernard for D.S.L.
Audio version by Evan, Fonta, and Halsted