I was young at the library
In a way, so were you.
I don’t think about it much,
until you call to remind me
how verdant the earth used to be
in our patch
of Good Hope.
And I cry because
I’m learning that guilt is like time–
there’s too much until there’s not enough.
These days you’re magnetic,
and I can’t sleep when there’s a full moon
So I roll over
onto my good hip–
If opposites really attract, while
my tongue turns to papier mâché
and I taste the pulp you used to strain
Because I thought I knew best
And you didn’t object
for there was time, and I was young.