MARJORIE
the tassel on your red beret
is almost the color of the sky,
the all blue of your eyes
like a newborns. your worn
overcoat loose on you, comfy.
I am straining to resurrect
the intricate details
of our encounter
with twin peaks: the return
streaming on the flatscreen
in the living room
was it El Capitan or Matterhorn?
were you English or French, or
Swiss? the jade broach, the bracelet
gold & rubies, a pearl necklace
& earrings — yes, I’m sure that’s right!
theres no secrets anymore, Marjorie
we have scrapbooks of captioned photos
instead, which is why we know
we shared rosti at a square table
in Zermatt at Alphitta… no — at Allalin
by the fireplace, in Saas-Fee, no —
chocolate cake in Oxford’s Grand Cafe…
we met was on the train from Prince,
clattering through tunnels, around bends
in the New River, en route to DC, Philly
NYC. Upon arrival, we disembarked,
never again to meet, except in my dream
on Labor Day eve, 2026, at 4:38 AM