I ran all the way to the river last night,

to return to the place you skipped
that flat stone with the white ring
seven times. We shook open
folding chairs. Rain
splashed into our wine.
We could always count on rain.
 
How could I have known
what to do with you?
I was young and proud. I didn't consider
happiness, then--you were never
what I had in mind. And I
was never what you had in mind.
 
I can't find the path we used to walk.
The pines have moved, green branches
gone brown.  The sky is a ghost
from treetop to ground.
Was the barn owl we saw
a ghost owl, too?
 
Now, I'm a bad wife
to a good man who needs me.
I ran all the way to the river
where the river no longer ran.

first published in San Pedro River Review

 
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