(2) Memory (Week Four)

We took the wrong train, took it all the way to Arezzo. And when the conductor asked us, still in our seats, where we’re headed, he laughed at our response—said no, stop. Finale. With no option, we laughed ourselves out of nervous skin. Outside, a couple of kids, like us, saying goodbye. She left him standing on binario tre. And it wasn’t her endless wave behind the window, but the way his head stooped into the pavement after. I knew how heavy his shoulders felt to the rest of the body. A year ago you were curry, the sweet scent of frangipani—my sari. And it’s true; I made you into a poem, put you into covetous lines with another woman. Though she was Indian and married. You loved her tea after dinner. It all seems silly, my misuse of smell and taste—the spices that stained your lips from her fingers weren’t true. But it was the only way to say I needed you, the only way to fill the space after smiling goodbyes.