There is a weight to this-
there is a certain weight.

I named them all-
over and over that first night.
A mantra- a spiral.

The weight of hands
rough fingers on
smooth skin.

There is weight in the color of silk stockings,
the sandals worn in Morocco,
the ring from Nicaragua, and your mother’s watch.

There are girls in long skirts,
or girls who cry in cafés.
A soft light;
the lens of memory.

The elephant in the room:
the time I waited outside your house
and you weren’t even home;
you said you would be home.

The weight of;
of feeling the wind push your hair back,
flinging your hands into the sky,
running down the sand dune,

I named them all-
over and over-
walking away.

Originally published in Public Pool 8/25/16