January 4, 2018Edges
She wants to keep walking, “Look at that maple,”
wind rising, as red as a coxcomb, like it’s bleeding
all over the ground, forest first, then the houses,
“I hate Sunday nights, weekends are so ‘us.’”
what I get for marrying a woman sixteen years
younger than myself, if I’d married Pat I’d be
out in California retired, walking on the beach,
seven days a week together facing the death of her
two (slightly older than her) sisters, waiting for the
Great Dark to descend on us both, instead of still
teaching, going down to the hospital every day
with my wife for lunch, her invariably inviting
me into her office to see some particularly
interesting cancer slide. I call Marcella in
Portugal, six our time, eleven there,
“You ought to come over here for the winter,
pasamos o dia tudo na praia, we spent
the whole day at the beach,” or my wife’s
brother in Brazil asking us when we’re coming
to visit again, “Estamos commuito saudade,
we miss you a lot,” some migratory bird
blood in me wanting out now while the
snowman parts hold on and want to stay and freeze.