One of the Last Days
–Marie Howe
As through a door in the air that I stepped through sideways
before reaching for a plate high in the cupboard

I find myself in the middle of my life: May night, raining,
Michael just gone to Provincetown, James making pizzas next door,

lilacs in full bloom, sweet in the dark rain of Cambridge.

On one of the last days I told him, You know how much you love Joe?
That’s how much I love you. And he said, No. And I said, Yes.

And he said, No. And I said, You know it’s true.
And he closed his eyes for a minute.

When he opened them he said, Maybe you’d better start looking for
somebody else.