Laura Romain



Red buds on the trees, girls
sprawled over the prickly hot grass,

fingers snaked
through their frizzing hair.

How did I forget this:
sun on my bare arm,

thawed earth yielding
to my steps, shimmering haze

off the sidewalks,
the surrender of solidity to heat?

I think I wanted to forget.
I think I became comfortable

in the mourning world—
snow and night, sparkling

bodies of ice
climbing the doors and windows,

all the latched windows. I forgot
the quiet was a sacrifice,

a painful bargain I’d made
to bring back the one I loved.                                                             

And when she comes
I’m shy, still wrapped

in my scarves, my limbs
still white as ice.


back to contents