A Poem Not to Get Married to


Picnic: I remember the slope of clouds had offended you—

the ratio of pink to blue. Our evening set aside, lovers with

feet feathered in grass, a convo set apart for future use. I

made the comment, “It looks like markers, like permanent

markers.” You liked that. Markers so big, fashioned to

color our sky. I reminded you I went to high school just over

there—a finger aimed at distant tree lines. Below a moon,

exposed like a toe nail. I observed, but didn’t say.


“How much pink is enough pink?” I asked.

“When talking twilight, never enough,” You replied.

A pattern emerged; I sensed it when talking and collected

its meaning, in hope of closure from such a picnic, later.

And nowhere near enough pink in the sky, not to

go around, apparently—I observed, but didn’t say.




There were ancient strains of “Crabtree and Evelyn”

left in the mild breeze; leftover, no doubt, from that

very same tree line, in the distance—my finger still points it out.

A taste remembered: chocolate milk on the tongue, and a kiss

taken from closed eyes—with Rocky singing, a

marker of black, for redaction, later to be, I use so

big, an effort, maybe failed, to revert that night,

to something tense, something Reggie might

remember, or endorse—probably burn like a

redneck trailer—in effigy—either way.



Floor: I’ll introduce myself:


the walking, talking poem

of picnic grounds,

of picking bushes, of soccer fields at night.

Of unmentionable marker-stained fingers. Of ratios too thin.

Of pink on hands, in dark, wet places. Of sunsets.

Of girls easily offended.


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