by Kay Meier

For years I carried the dark snapshot
of you before an ancient crumbling wall
in south Portugal. The picture was all
I had. My need has creased the paper,
your face is cracked beyond hope of repair.

Today I learned of the death of another
man I loved. In time all memory grays,
but now I am numb like the night we kissed
goodbye in Lisbon. I drifted to the plane,
not swallowing, keeping your taste alive
until after take-off, the climb to clouds.

 

Kay Meier’s poem originally appeared in The Dominion Review, Barely South Review’s ancestor, back in 1989 (Issue. No. 7). Thanks to the University of Wisconsin-Madison libraries for allowing access to their full archive of The Dominion Review.