A Garden with Poppies

A Garden with Poppies

(“He joined them at the table. Then he took bread and gave thanks. He broke it and began to give it to them.” Luke 24:30)

I would let you stay for free.
I would start the fire and sing the first song
that came to mind.
I would announce it quietly, like candles
entering the stage for the second act.

I might not recognize you. I might think
twice
about the facts of your existence.
Sometimes you are a conflagration;
sometimes you are a whisper.

I should take a walk today along
the road where the tar inscribes cracks
in the asphalt.
I should turn where your driveway ends
and see if you have time for
a leaden heart today. I should experiment less;
I should make the most of my time.

I remember when we first met. Do
you?
It must have been winter when our footprints
turned the snow to ice and children used the
crosswalk on their way to school.
My heart has always had an empty space.
My eyes tear up within minutes of being alone.
My face is far older than the person I replaced.
My songs do not come easily. But I would sing
them anyway,
if only you would stay well into the afternoon.

My intentions are mixed like wine at the
bottom of the barrel.
My last night home might become my first
look at a portrait I haven’t seen since we
learned each other’s names.

I would set a place for you.
I would create a garden with poppies.
I would decorate my face so you could not see
how much I fear that you may not stay.
I would say all the things I wish I had heard.

With all that I write
I still cannot empty my mind of
words etched upon wet cement.
I am too old for another breaking.

Sometimes you are a fire in my bones,
sometimes I sit at home and waste hours at a time.
My words scatter like yearling rabbits,
my thoughts like toy magnets clack against
the inside of my head.

If you receive my invitation,
if you think of me at all,
say the words I fear to say, tell me
everything you have never said.
I will listen.
I will listen,
if you would only call.