thinking of Ann Monroe
Though we may not know it then,
some goodbyes are forever. She
cried in the cafe--cold-rain Spring
day. We went to her place and made
love just one more time. Her black hair.
We drifted like untied rowboats
in a harbor. One hot Summer day,
we met to say goodbye. Decades
rolled by like freight trains, clack-clack,
on the time track. I see her
face on that goodbye day. When
both of us thought in frames of hours,
days, weeks, months. I don't recall
precisely what we said besides, "Okay,
see you later. Bye." I know neither
of us thought forever. And those decades
later, after no contact, I heard she
died. I felt like I stood on a cliff,
looking down, down, into a deep
canyon in which a river had run dry.
I wrote a note on one of those
obituary sites online. It felt like
scribbling with charcoal
on a canyon wall no one would see.
Hans Ostrom 2024
