Dinner gets cold, right
there between us, the sight
of it turning my stomach, and
I spend weeks trying to settle
the tab, sharp edges to everything
we owed, until deciding,
like the food, some things are
better thrown away.
It’s funny (no, it isn’t) the way
some reckless boy wanders in
and all the colors change, and
when he goes, they stay,
stubborn hues, bruises in blues,
grays, indigoes, and
there I go, trying again to
paint sunshine onto my wanting skin.
The warm returns slowly, golds,
oranges, roses, and I forget
you in sunflowers, but
memory lives on in the corners
within us, the axe forgets,
the tree remembers, and you
return in sharp edges, shards of
glass in the carpet, and
I remember everything.
Dinner’s on me, I decide,
because to settle our scores
means to stay in proximity, and
trying to weather your rain
to prove I had faith in your sun
only ever choked me, pruned
fingertips and graying eyes,
that’s on me, on me, on me.
michael king 