When I arrived your terrace glass
was open a hand’s width.
There was an almost breeze, a quite breeze
that stirred the air like a ghost.
I lay there on the sofa where you
kissed me. My skin remembered
how it once was. We made an apple tart,
you folded my clothes.
I can hear you laughing in French
in the bedroom, where at night
I hold you like the sun
of these first warm days.
At the park the fuschia sky
went all the way to the tour Eiffel.
Yes, my face fills with the same light
when you appear.
You see, you have a passenger.
At the market
the fruit vendor says, Let your husband
take the cart,
and when your sister calls
to ask the difference in English
between from and by,
I am too dizzy to know what to tell her.
The day before I leave, thinking
you are just sad I say,
I know you don’t hate me.
Yes, I do, you tell me.