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–

your bad,

and wonder

If opposites really attract, while

my tongue turns to papier mâché

and I taste the pulp you used to strain

so willingly,

Because I thought I knew best

And you didn’t object

for there was time, and I was young.