When We Had the Chance

Not learning her recipe for mole sauce—
why didn’t I take notes? Speaking
too quickly, letting the rush
fuel my words. Leaving the room. I regret
my silence. Regret my words. Falling
asleep without her in my arms. Turning
another page instead of apologizing. Throwing the book.
Not waiting. I regret remembering.
Regret allowing words she did
and didn’t mean live in me.
Regret that I believed
her anger. That she wasn’t angry.
That I stopped gazing
into her eyes without turning away. That I cannot
remember the exact path of each line
in her forehead. That I stayed.
That I left. Came back. Married her.
Didn’t. That we did not stay the extra day
when we had the chance. That I said yes.
And had no answer. Secretly knew
the answer. That I didn’t just leave
the room. Left too early. Waited. Longed
and sought the impossible—gambled
on it. Won. Then won. Then lost.

Keeping Time

Love, death forces the dance
this way and that, and yet,
we dance! All that’s real
is your breath
billowing between the walls
and floor that hold you like a palm.
Your blue chairs solid and true.
Your lavender in the air.
Your wife, so soft in her sleep.
Dawn awaits. And your next
action draws another
breath. The clock
behind you keeps
a steady beat–everything
and irrelevant to the heart.

perhaps the small

talk, television, astrology,
cigarettes, rosary beads and computer games
mask our hunger
pains. and the liquor and prayers are just signs
we’re ready. philosophy,
marriage and heroin evidence
of our longing–willingness
to suffer in case
mortals truly can
see the face of God.