Your first love

This poem is from a couple years ago. I haven't written much recently, though hopefully that'll change some time in the forseeable future.



Your First Love



You find her again by accident

crouched under the socks

in your nightstand.

It’s not really an accident.

You remember exactly where you were

when you took it,

what you were wearing,

what was on your mind.

You even remember

the brand and the make

of camera,

a Kodak Tourist II

your father bought for you

at the World’s Fair.

You run your hands over the glass.

You wonder if you’ll ever be able to bear it,

the weight of your own history.

You have long since given up

dusting her photograph, or even

remembering

just who it was who first slipped her

into the glass frame.

In your hands she is still and flat.

It is late and the room is too cold.

Somehow you know:

it’s like this everywhere,

all across November

the slack hands are digging out the old loves

from nightstands,

turning them over

and over again,

and wishing themselves

under glass.