In a week I’d be at college. For now,
reflected in the river’s smooth sheen,
the arches of the downtown bridge became circles,
full as the moon overhead. From the driver’s seat
you pointed them out, the wind from your hand,
as it raised, ruffling the down on my cheek.
There were petals in the bathtub.
It was after midnight in Belgium.
“Will you marry me?” you asked,
your voice thick with wine.
My favorite restaurant. Gauze in my sinus,
two broken bones, newly repaired,
invisible to the naked eye. In my bowl,
cracked mussel shells, wine, thyme.
I watched your hands. You looked abashed,
and had for a week. Carefully, as they were
so delicate, we clinked glasses.
We shook on it. I started a pot of soup.
It began to snow on our roof. You unpacked.
I suppressed a shiver at the sight
of your razor. I’d last seen it last night.
At gate B25 we had to separate,
but first you wanted to stop by a window,
take my hand in yours, make a vow.
You’d call me later. Outside, the sun,
round as an orange, balanced
on the horizon, began to bleed light.
You stripped naked. You strode past.
I saw the barrel raise, heard the hammer
click. Only you had known the cylinder,
that cycle of moons, was empty.