A Year Ago, Now
[a ghazal]
We rode among the ashy aspens last winter,
our horses’ hooves crunched through bracken last winter.
I kept the letter you wrote me, tucked
under a wine bottle, dampened, last winter.
We stumbled into nameless pubs, floors sticking
to our dirty boots in London last winter.
My fingers trembled on the ferry railing,
clutching yours, gloved but frozen, last winter.
Sunlight crept between the blinds of your sister’s
place, waking us at three in Brooklyn last winter.
I watched you fry some eggs, wrist flicking left
and right, tossing in spoons of cumin last winter.
Laughing, drunk, you cut out paper costumes
sitting on my parents’ kitchen floor last winter.
In the freezing rain we walked through gray-brown parks
in Paris, threw coins in dry fountains last winter.
The moonlight played across your face, its curves
glancing through sheer curtains last winter.
I remember you calling my name, Charlee,
in the snow in southern Paris, socks sodden, last winter.