in the third house we walked
to school, down the hill and through
the cemetery-- small limestone
bricks, no elaborate status, most of the names
long gone like their owners--
and across the creek, or through it,
depending on the weather.
(we had to be able to trust that the sun
would dry us by the time we were home.)
are these the secrets i didn't tell you?
are these the invisible soldiers
that stood between us, shoulder to shoulder,
while you and i peered over their helmets
at each others' wary faces? is this
what i could not share? you with your
invincible sense of place, your iron, salt,
cement and firmness: the hospital where your mom
suffered ten hours for you, her first; her
next apartment, blonde squatty cement
and you remember the pink of her bedroom
(she would only have been 21); the first house,
too far from the lake for a view but
close enough for the wind; and all of your
schools in a row, red brick, green grass, perfect
little football fields and playgrounds.
these are your touchstones, your environment
and the memories that swirl when you
walk into a room, or out on your mom.
what moves when i strain? dust?
i cannot remember, i have never revisited.
are these the separations which, inch by inch,
kept me from the heat of your love?
even if i knew, i could never reciprocate.
i have never desired the retracing of this path.