Kristin (2nd draft)

The last time I saw you
we shared a dinner off a slingshot,
then curled up with our pillows
like willows in early winter weather –

I massaged the day off your body
and the light was like a t.v. mosaic
of seltzer bubbles in my fleeting
fling with a Tom Collins –

Your hands reminded me
of a comb across a balding head,
the careful caress of your nails
like club soda fizzling flat.

After those long summer days at work
I imagined some nights you dreamed of
Kindergartens and Cristkindlmarkts
under Allemagne skies.

I will give you, and you me, a child
and we’ll waltz through Marienplatz,
like two marionettes in tune
with strings untangled from today.

Kristin

The last time I saw you
we shared a dinner off a slingshot,
then curled up in bed –
I massaged the day off your body
and the light was like a mosaic
of seltzer bubbles in my misdirected
fling with a Tom Collins –
the ginger caress of your nails
and your hands reminded me of
a comb across a balding head,
the gin fizzling flat.
I imagined some nights you dreamed of
this summer’s return to Germany.
I will give you a child
and we will plan a return trip to live.
I wish to waltz through with you
Luitpold Park, Königs- and Marienplatz,
like two marionettes in tune
with strings untangled from today.

A night in Bal'more

I still recall that autumn evening
when we picked up the drunk in your truck
at the liquor store, and he asked us
for a ride home from AA
and then for some beer.
We u-turned back to the dorms
and your finger slammed like an apple
in the basement door and we rushed you
to St. Agnes in our pajamas,
sat out front with the addicts for hours
throwing bottle caps in the birdbath.
Down Rt. 40 and Wilkens Ave.
the main drag road downtown,
Bal’more rose in sky scraping towers
and we were falling to the sidewalks
like beetles drawn in by the neon
blinking of three letters: BAR.