I wore a long black skirt
with a slit up the left leg,
a red cashmere turtleneck,
thin gold belt loose at the waist.
What town east of the Hudson
it was, I forget. Whose party too.
The house lit atop a dark hill,
his car parked at the bottom,
wind whipping up from the river
cold and clear as we neared,
he turned and said: I know it’s late…
… but will you be my girlfriend?
So many prescient ills lived
in that sentence, its pauses.
Blind: I clutched his face
between woolen gloves,
kissed my own tears,
inhaled foggy relief.
Now I glimpse it all
like night vision: 22,
dearth of worthiness.
No, no, I want to cry
to the red-sweatered,
gold-belted,
black-skirted,
wool-gloved girl
on the hillside.
No, no, you have it
all out of sequence.
He should kiss you
through tears here,
will take too much,
will always hedge
with you at his side.
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