Who is the one you don’t talk about? Before I knew you, she was there.
And still, when you are on the phone listening, I read her in your face.
It is a long story, I think. You have a certain look, a downward tilt
of your head, left arm folded across your chest, cell phone against your face.
Her voice lays a yoke on your shoulders, you listen and listen.
I remember penitents dragging a cross to Rome, and recognize the guilt in your face.
If I love you, must I love your mystery? Is that the kind of story she is?
I see memory move in your eyes like a turning page. I memorize your face
because you cannot see me stare, your vision focused on the past.
Who do you think I am? Someone who won’t tell you to your face,
“Be with me now. Tell me a story. I will listen and listen.”?
Do you remember sitting in your car one winter, rain shadows on your face
when you took your glasses off to kiss me, but kept your eyes open,
calling me by name, as I moved to meet your face.