I can’t pretend her throaty invitations never
whispered their way into my waking world.
I dream of her with her lipstick in full bloom;
the next morning my eyelids are soaked towels.
In one dream, she dies, her white throat slit
like a ribbon, from ear-to-ear, by a dark man
in a Red Sox hat who watches her bleed out.
I stand in the corner, my hands on my throat.
In another dream, she wears a wedding dress
and waits for me at the end of an endless aisle.
When I arrive, she smiles and straightens my tie.
I cry and tell her in July we’ll find a lost promise.
