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.