Emily Bennett

 

I wanted to curve your cheeks

inside my hands,

count sunflower spirals

in patterns

down your collarbones.

You were going to wear a yellow dress

that defined the arcs of your hips like a violin.

I wanted to bring you flowers

graced by mythological goddesses;

I wanted to learn your middle name.

 

I planned for picnics and parks and front steps and back porches,

piano chords and typewriter keys, postcards and poetry graffiti,

 

I wanted to write sonnets on your skin

in permanent ink

so you would find traces of me in the shower,

still staining the backs of your knees.

 

Kneeling with hotel carpets

engraving themselves into our skin, we planned

to clasp hands and close eyes

in the clarity of the sunlight:

 

Easter Sunday morning, we swore we'd kiss

and find faith again.

But there's no Jesus playing guitar

on the steps of the Art Institute,

there's no Mary weeping pearls

into the algae of the lake.

 

There's only this girl

waiting for stained-glass sympathy,

pretending the green train windows

will turn to the grass of Central Park,

pretending spring will come

and pare away the time,

wash the distance off her skin like sand.