I wrote you a poem.

In an e-mail, I lamented to one of my kids from this summer’s mural project: “I don’t write poetry anymore.” He, himself a budding writer, asked why. “I don’t know,” I wrote back. “Maybe I need to be in love. I wrote lots of poems when I was in love.”

Even though I was in love in my last relationship, the one that left me utterly heartbroken when it ended, I don’t recall ever writing a poem for him. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe I was so engrossed in drawings and other art forms that the words just never came.

I wrote a poem this morning. Make of that what you will. It seems all my rules have changed, and that I’m a bit rusty, but it is what it is.

__________

a silver coin folded in half:

the moon blinks at me and I blink back

under my jeans, my knees are cold
steam rising from my cardboard container
of tofu and rice

I think of you often.
I entertain naive thoughts,
like
do you think of me too?
is it when you wake, or when
you’re nearly asleep?
do you wish you were making
two cups of coffee
instead
do you think about my laugh,
the brash cackle belying the
ladylike?

I think of your kindness
how you tie all my loose ends neatly
together
we take walks and I press against you
I want you to calm all my shivers

don’t get me wrong:
I can handle cold.
I can sleep alone.
I can do all kinds of amazing things
by myself.

but

when I make coffee,
I make enough cups for two
anyway.
when I sleep, I curl against a pillow
or the dog
anyway.

and when I see the moon
fold itself in half
and shine cold and bright
I hope you can see it
too.