The water
in the Charles is anything but still
the ragged
edge of my coat flaps and you take
your
beret--look over the bridge into the river
as if you
plan to throw it or maybe even jump.
Your
fingers feel cold, the railing is rusted
and we are
alone except for an old woman
making her
way across—she seems to ignore us
but out of
the corner of my eye I see her smile
smile as
if she is trying to remember her past
life or a
past death. We first met in summer
the water
was still, you would recite Neruda
to me
while I searched for redemption alone.
You
laughed when you forgot the name of a red
winged
bird—it was perched alone and quiet--
it made
you sad to think he may have lost
his mate.
Now you are poised and ready
to toss
your beret and for a moment I think
you won’t.
The wind kicks up, the old woman
covers her
face and you throw it out as far
as you
can—leave me to watch it float away.
