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Jill Alexander Essbaum 
No, the sky was not unique
with stars and an arbitrary moon.
It was bright August, an afternoon,
and I had only just learned to speak
of grief and solitude with the command
of full or proper sentences. That
was how it was. Remember when we met?
You smiled and I turned soot and sand,
useless as an undiscovered well.
Then, drunk on the drowse of summer
sleep, I crumbled into you, a tipsy lover.
No, no, no--the air was not sick with chill
and rain, and there were no witnesses
to catch us feebly grinding bone to bone
in that unchaste pastime of romp and groan,
only the screaming jays and random birches
looking on. Oh, you got it wrong, my dove,
my drone, all wrong. Nothing you recall is up to par.
And since your disremembering seems an increment art,
won´t you soon forget that it was me you loved?
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