We broke up, I said

Oh no, she said, turning on her stool, clipboard on her knees--

I wasn't expecting the rush of warmth in my chest

From sudden kindness.

That's how it gets you, the grief--it slides in, splitting snake scales

A knife between ribs

A hole hiding in a shadow

On the ground, twisting your ankle with the blunt efficiency of gravity.

We broke up, and we haven't spoken

Since April.

I could have told her: I wanted to send him a book of poems by Mary Oliver

I wanted

So many things. To cup our palms together and drink from the spring

By the restaurant where we ate May before last

Sharing

Something clean

Grief makes me remember, makes me feel your chapped fingertips

On my cheek

Where you never once caressed me.

Love becomes even more of a dream

Once grief has ahold of it

Love begins as a wish

And dies

Cluttered with illusions.

No tests then, she asks, and I shake my head, the braid over my shoulder

Heavier

Than any promise you ever made me.