'What, did you love him? ' Yes.
Almost automatically. Like my name
or my address. Picking at
broiled chicken, and string beans,
I face the proding questions
of my parents: tear-shed and exposed.
I would have run away with him,
if he had asked me.
Instead, he said, it's best i finish school.
[Instead, he said, it's best i leave on my own.]
Maybe, maybe we'll meet down the line. He doesn't know maybes
are never good enough. At his age, he is but a child. A man child.
Refusing to shower, for two
and a half days. Afraid that i
might wash the scent of him
off me: The scent of danger.
Of lust. Of complete & utter,
shameless
dominance.
Not knowing if, or when, it will come again.
I even contemplated returning
to his—our hotel room to refresh my lungs
& clear my head, with the memories.
To sit on his bed and stroke the comforter.
Stand by the glass window
where he would always ask when i straddled the sill:
'What are you going to jump? '
I guess I carried that tired look, that jaded, fed-up, suicidal rage.
s./j. goldner
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/come-september-come-now/
