robyn jensen

a love affair

You sat at the table
turning wine into sweet grapes
and I gorged myself on your voice;
it was late.

I followed you to the canals,
saw only your footprints, you
forgot my name and
I was happy.

Happy! Bridges spoke
with mouths agape while
strangers made love in windows
and you were just a shadow

by the water, under the streetlamp,
whispering words I’d never heard before,
in a grammar that still spirals my tongue
and teaches me to be concise.

Or how you said sealable for “syllable”
and suddenly we were in bed together,
hoping for the flood
that threatens this city, breathing.

I wanted to write you letters,
cut my hair short and
bury the braids in your mattress for winter,
but you opened the window

and closed the window
and slept on the ledge
among the gardenias.
Abandoned, I watched from inside—

an echo of myself.
I would not see you again,
oh, except in dreams;
I packed my suitcase full.