Mary
DeNardo
It’s okay to dwell on you
The ghost of you is the ghost
of us with red yarn. Heidi tied a
long piece of red yarn around your head and into a small bow at
the top of your hair still set from Wednesday, near your forehead.
You swipe away the tail end of the bow when it lands just over
your eyebrow. She is yours and she is ours and she left the win-
dow open for the view of the field. She is not mine she is yours
I
was only swimming laps then. You are worse with your sentences
worse with your memory. She is yours in the fall when she
opened the window of the barracks. She is yours,running down
the drive holding up the back of her dress. And always the same
horizon.You are worse with your shoulders, hunched up over the
TV guide, the flicker of the lamp, the view of the front yard.
She
moves the flowers on the table. To the edge she moves to the
edge. What it feels like to be you and not her, without horizons.
Holding the back of her dress on the street she is yours. You
move the flowers back to the center. This is the shape of her
window, the books under her pillow, the color of the field, a
dusty swimming pool. What it feels to be us, running.
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