Visiting The Severed, Fractured Past Apart

Monday, January ninth, nineteen seventy-eight:
really, at the lunch table with our friends---
that is when you decided to tell me?
Or did the sorority's initiant procedure
dictate the time and venue?

(You had left me alone all weekend,
having returned to our hometown,
to that outlying house your parents' demons haunted;
relying on your roommate to explain
your sudden absence as best she could.)



You severed us apart with insouciant words
that covered an implacable resolve.
You slammed the door on us and barred it
against the mutual memories of two years shared.
You wrested the stars from once constellated skies.
And yet, somehow, I was still called Starwatcher, then.



On the first weekend after, which was, really, our
second weekend apart by your choice,
your roommate found me in the library's basement---
was it coincidence that the great love poet's poems
were only a few steps from the astronomy section?
Your roommate told me gently,
"The woman you worship is not the same
"as the woman who lives with me in [---] Hall."



The music of that time, that we loved, can still be heard.
But the conversations in MHz waves have escaped to outer space.
The era we loved will not occur again.
We will never occur again; we have become, across decades, you and I.







Against you, shod in grasping paucity,
the shoeless Muses' curvacity
has not failed to comfort me;
borne witness by my posted poetry.




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