Beads

Beads

My instinct is to wait for you

outside the building where you

work to sit on that concrete bench

shifting my weight crossing

uncrossing my skirt from the heat.

Sweaty thighs, sticky hands

just for the moment you might walk

out and I would get up to hit you

between my tears and my sensitive

rage and I would grab those beads

around your neck that

necklace you never take off

which you’ve mended time and again

and pull at it to let the tiny

wooden beads scatter on the ground

like all those memories I can’t

stop on the streets we’ve passed together

scatter them on your pillow where I

slept and they will roll those beads

tiny fragments of what we were so brief

just passing days. Then, I would

turn around and leave you like

you left me without

a word.

August 13, 2008