A poem about yesterday

April 23, 2009

Yesterday

We were both wearing gray.
One of those things you do,
instinctually,
when you are both in the same mood.
He started unwrapping the box
like he was undressing her.
And I noticed that the wrapping was gray too.
We sat and looked out over the valley.
We both fingered the plastic bag.
"How much do you think is in there?"
"Probably just shy of a tablespoon."
I started crying.
"It's not at all what I thought it would be."
It wasn't soft like the ashes in the chiminea.
It was gritty, like ground up bones and fingernail clippings.
"She had bones."
We exchanged secrets then.
Secrets that lovers share
when they become parents.
"I'm scared to let them go."
"Don't be scared."
We laughed about the Big Lebowski.
The heat from the sun on my back was starting to burn me,
I could tell.
But I didn't care.
I didn't mind the sweat sticking to me under my breasts.
I didn't mind the beads forming on his forehead when I
leaned over and kissed him, wet and salty.
"Are you ready?"
"Not yet."
A few more secrets needed to be shared.
"Okay. I'm ready."
We took turns,
each pouring out our hearts
onto the ground in front of us.
We sat in the silence for a few more minutes.
"I'm ready."
"So am I."