Certainly we are not too old for that day
as dense as age on your bedroom floor.
My drab white dress, face like a sheet.
Your hands around my throat.
I am not a cynic. I resent your meekness.
It is the year of the rabbit. But I did not think
I could afford one more romance.
Listen,
I am willing to forgive everything
if you will remember me by:
Wednesday morning in Amman,
we walked beneath the cottonwood poplar,
a military of birds sang a chaotic song.
Believe me when I say they called to you.
Image © Zheka Kapusta
