It’s how you sit in the middle of everything, waiting for the Woolf in me. I used to think of love as a reduction of self. How the act of loving diminished. An always setting sun. I think of how you are there, open and waiting. And ultimately empty. If only. Two women set out on an adventure. A hand gently rests. They sneak gin from a tarnished flask. It will matter more to the one in robin’s egg blue. The other will know all of the right flowers to arrange at dinner. In blue. She will say, But I did love you once and your fingers of silk. Your cheek so cold. If hours. Ended and nothing stopped the way you are the edge of glass. Sand and fire and storm.
Jen Rouse is a poet and playwright. She directs the Center for Teaching and Learning at Cornell College. Her work has appeared in The Citron Review, Pithead Chapel, Cleaver, Always Crashing, Mississippi Review, and elsewhere. Her books with Headmistress Press include: Acid and Tender, CAKE, and Riding with Anne Sexton. Find her on Twitter @jrouse.