Friday, December 29, 2006

#250: December 29, 2006

You always kept some water by the bed
in case you woke up thirsty in the night.
I can remember that--and how the light
cut fault lines through the glass. And once you said
you felt just like that white stray cat you fed
on scraps from old pie plates you left outside.
When she stopped coming round, Lord, how you cried--
the water down your face, eyes puffed and red.

I think sometimes about the night you tried
to make me say I loved you--how the bright
blue tears stood in your eyes, where gold light bled
in angelic refraction; how the sight
drew out my ugly truth, and how instead,
now knowing what I owe, I should have lied.

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