#april is over
i. maybe all poetry
should begin with a cottage by the sea. it takes a decade for memories to mature.
this one: ripe enough to squeeze, to drench
in nostalgia. the house we rented was called erin.
i wanted to
have begun there,
tried to fill my suitcase with pebbles and sand so i could take it home with me. but before i
forget, and trust me, i will,
let us recall all those little scratches: my feet torn up like a patio from running around
shoeless, my skin the colour of poison apples
from the heatwave that kept me up at night tossing and turning like
a child buried alive, my sister reading my diary
aloud while i jumped up at her like a chihuahua; crying, trying to snatch back my secrets,
the mouthfuls of waves
punching my throat like fistfuls of death.
see?
not everything is the way
i would rather remember.
ii. maybe no one should write poetry about an april day in glasgow,
unless they lived one the way we did.
one year ago, back when we were new at this. when you span me around your city
like a spool of thread. remember when
you still cared to unravel me? anyway,
the icecream was sweet and your hand in mine was sweeter still.
three natural wonders of the world in one day:
that second hand bookshop,
right next to the vegetarian café with the lentil soup we loved,
and your smile when i was the reason.
but before i am further seduced by my mistress nostalgia
there was
that yellow typewriter i should’ve bought, and how our best friend told us he was moving back
home instead of in with me
and the way you wouldn’t stop talking about your ex girlfriend. still,
it was a good day.
we used to have a lot of those.
iii. none of my poems will begin or end
with you anymore.
i am nostalgic for who i was last week. my sincerest condolences to
the version of myself who believed you
would never hurt me.
i am nostalgic for the person i thought you were,
i’ll always miss the girl who only kissed me.
“Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.”— From “The Sensible Thing” by F. Scott Fitzgerald
