My poor dance of memory means I can’t quite reconfigure you,
a fool’s waltz round to think today, remembering how we might have been
only some gasped reaction, like gulping the coldest water imaginable,
for a moment how we stole each other’s breaths, but then warmed up,
aghast, I fear, at what was mistaken for mutual affection.
I feel old glacier slow as slippery time, piecing together any kind of history
we barely wrote, finding some tiny fossilized affection, a mere pebble
I dig up now, hardly feeling a fainting echo down the years,
some quiet piping flute and silent feet tiptoeing through my mind,
a misty dancer’s body, gauzed and hazy vision of Baryshnikov,
the subtle undetected breathing technique of Rampal.
You said flautist, and I said flutist, so déclassé,
you might say, like the words, “I am yours for good,” engraved
mistakenly on a stilled heart long ago by a recalled hand.
The rain came down outside the window.
He looked back at her. Do you want it all now?
She shook her head. No. Then is okay. And only half. That would be fair.
And it’s me.
The wind picked up. A storm threatened.
And you don’t want it now.
No. Could you drive me there and back home afterward?
The rain blew sideways.
He moved toward her. It felt the right thing. He held out his arms and embraced her.
A burst of thunder rattled the glass. A cutting flash of lightning zigzagged the room.
Yes, of course.