EasterI wanted to curve your cheeks inside my hands, count sunflower spirals in patterns down your collarbones. You were going to wear a yellow dress that defined the arcs of your hips like a violin. I wanted to bring you flowers graced by mythological goddesses; I wanted to learn your middle name. I planned for picnics and parks and front steps and back porches, piano chords and typewriter keys, postcards and poetry graffiti, I wanted to write sonnets on your skin in permanent ink so you would find traces of me in the shower, still staining the backs of your knees. Kneeling with hotel carpets engraving themselves into our skin, we planned to clasp hands and close eyes in the clarity of the sunlight: Easter Sunday morning, we swore we'd kiss and find faith again. But there's no Jesus playing guitar on the steps of the Art Institute, there's no Mary weeping pearls into the algae of the lake. There's only this girl waiting for stained-glass sympathy, pretending the green train windows will turn to the grass of Central Park, pretending spring will come and pare away the time, wash the distance off her skin like sand.  |
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