Every night I walked along
the Aurajoki River and made jokes to
silhouettes of friends back home
crushed frosty grass through graveyards:
hobbled over fields of autumn-tilled
mud now frozen

When I came home my fingers
were crooked, pale: they rattled
on the doorknob. Beneath the
door-shadow’s arc, I saw
the lace-bordered envelope
resting like a feather on my floor.
I clicked open my knife
and as I slit the vanilla bloomed
under cold fluorescence.

I came that night for dinner
and wine despite my heart
slagging in my chest. As we
passed your bed, I saw you
glance toward the sheets
and smile. (Just so you know,
I took my wine before my meal
because when I looked at you
my tongue turned to starch).
Blonde hair crisp above
your ears, eyes of chiseled topaz,
pearl flesh making angles in your red blouse:
you were beautiful while you spoke
about your fiancé, that this night
was your anniversary, that he had
taken to the road three weeks before
and written only twice to say that
he was on a boat home from Norway.
I remember everything you said-

I entertained you with stories
of the South, about my friends-
when we nearly died while camping,
when we broke into locked churches
at midnight to read our teenage verse
aloud: I hoped that these would fade
your grief, if only for the night.

Sitting by me on your bed
you kissed me on the cheek.
I sat with hands between my knees
and only blushed, then left.

I first made love five years later.
Now I know what you wanted-
the charge of human alchemy
when two dolls of clay blend together
in the night and grow slowly into silver.
Even knowing this, at last,
I wonder what I could have given you
besides regret for having been left again.