Foxes and Magnolias

Poetry for keepsakes, for longing, for letting go.

But I don’t Want to Love Anyone

The small, older man selling photographs

on a Friday night side street

laughed at us, kindly,

at the way we spoke Spanish to each other,

badly.

He spoke English

well,

taught us a few palabras- slang, mostly.

 

Later-

“Miras a la luna,” I pointed to the sky.

It looked different here, tilted.

 

“Si, es bonita,” not knowing the words for more,

though little else needed.

 

Some days, the Mexican sun made your hair a bit blonder,

the edges of your nose,

previously broken (though I never noticed before)

both sharpen and round

depending on the direction you angled.

 

At times our faces were closer than usual,

legs touching under the table without meaning to.

I want to kiss you,

tell you it could be so easy to love you.

 

When driving to Cancun, both of us half sleeping,

the road knocked our knees together, had our shoulders brush.

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Trash

I was talking to a friend

and after five or six beers in

he said,

 

I want to feel like a piece of garbage

so that I can feel love,

because that’s what love is

 

sometimes.

Goodbye, Sorry

I’ve written so many poems

fishing for words

to say goodbye,

I’m sorry.

 

I can’t find them,

the words.

 

 

Medicine Cabinet

 

I wonder how long my toothbrush will be there

in the medicine cabinet, lying next to yours.

I hope to know you’re not waiting

for me to use it again,

loving you like I wanted to,

like you hoped I would.

Boys

Too many boys are in love with me.

Why do they love me

like that?

I wish I could love them like that

too.

Language

Last night we began

to come up with a language of touch.

One finger means this,

two means that,

three- us or we.

I wonder how full our dictionary will be

by the time we are 80,

still touching each other.

Tribe

A little tribe:

you,

my dog,

me.