All of the other loves were resolved. Some were left. Some chose
To leave. Only J blinks on and off, once here, now there, not wholly
Gone, a bruise on me, which she can thumb, unknowingly? I cannot
Say. Does she bear one like mine? Again, I do not know, but, in her
Face, each time we meet, a trace of something. Sorrow for what
Couldn't last? Longing for a second, no, a third, a fourth, a sixteenth
Pas a deux on some unlikely stage. We loved in Paris, underground,
Above it, in the Eiffel Tower, looking at what we acknowledged was
A city made of lights. We loved in hot tubs, hallways, searing parking
Lots, and cactus gardens in Las Vegas several days. We paddled
Through the arboretum in Seattle, shared the mist which hung
Beside Snoqualmie Falls. She thumbed the bruise most brutally
When she was in her wedding dress. She whispered, "Can't we go
Somewhere?" We couldn't, can't, but will we, someday? That's not
Been resolved.