by Amy Lemmon
The East River looks frozen, choked
eddies pulling in oppositions.
Cumulocirrus skies leak blue in spots.
You are not waiting at home
as you were so long, long ago,
solid point ’round which my currents churned.
Picking my way through stepped-on
frozen slush, I push my heart rate,
building stamina for the long haul.
How many more miles without you
or any other You? Families pass
on the promenade. The men
have all married younger wives.
The women are plush and beautiful,
their lips open delicately when kissed.
I have not forgotten how I had
to teach you softness, the relaxed tongue,
the release that made you squirm.
Spring is so late this year
we may never thaw again. Hard
to believe, harder to bend not break.