Friday

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. 

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