A poem

[serene]

The Last Vacation

I picked you up that day,
after work,
the summer swelter bending the air
melting our hair,
our resolve
to keep trying
at least until September,
at least until then.

I remember that trip in flashes,
the past a travelogue of our journey,
the aerial tramway a cheesy metaphor in the making,
too high and too scary for me,
but I took it anyway.
That's the story I tell most often;
the one about how I faced my fears.
You were on the tram. You do not appear in the story
when I tell it,

and if you tell the story—
do you tell the story?—
you could tell them about the swimming pool
in the lesbian-owned hotel,
where you nearly drowned,
and I didn't even notice,
until it was almost too late.

In the desert that summer,
we tried to outrun the sadness,
we honestly did,
with all the lust inside us,
with all the goodwill our friends
couldn't understand,
even as many times as we said the word
"amicable."

Weeks later, when we both knew it was over,
I started to say "At least--"
And you pinched your mouth into a white line.
"Don't you dare. Don't you dare say,
'At least we had Palm Springs.'"

Comments

[jae]

Wow. Gorgeous.

-J