Always: Brown hair and eyes and lies,
told me you never wanted to be with me
that way. Actually, you said it looking
into my eyes at Lake Tahoe, after we
both agreed we understood why people
wanted to keep it blue. I guess we only
agreed on one thing. But, still, love for
you grew stupidly in me like a tree
planted in a temporary pot. I'm the dumb
housewife who didn't know you needed
space to get roots to get something at all.
You just looked so good in my door,
I didn't have that kind of time.
And when you came back around,
I've pictured our wedding. I've pictured
how you'll yell at me when we're old,
a new branch launched green forgiving
into my gut. Every new geometry of living
with you flowering with your slight touch:
Pulling me back from traffic.
Demonstrating on my shoulder
how she touches you in public.
You hate it. You brush an eyelash
off my cheek.