Sunday

Sunday 

It

     was

Sunday.

            We went for a picnic, and

            It smelt like a yellow green, and

            There were church bells.

            Very cliché. I cried, and

            You questioned their motivation.

            You had learned that in Advanced Acting.

            It was an expensive class,

            And you had played Nora Helmer.

Says I: “I don’t know why,

            But I have this feeling

            That we’ve exited a covenant.”

            You nodded, mild, with sleepy lids.

            Your face was mild too –

            A bolt of blue-milk cloth

            With your eyes too far apart,

            And your dishwater hair.

            We sat and ate sandwiches of

            Expensive swiss and turkey:

            Your mouth tasted like a new glue smell

            And I think it was our first Easter.

            Unwed again, I pondered

            Our windy

                             isolation.

            I was a Christian who did not splurge

            On waterproof mascara, or acting classes.

Though I had since forgotten how to talk

            To people who are not you,

            I could better paste my face together

            And hear the grass.

            Your palm as cool as a melon, you grasped my hand.

            I covered my ears –

            The grass was crying, too.