Translations frequently differ;
sometimes it means
you feel good tonight.

tactic: write very
small so you have
to lean closer.

Felt good to be warm. Felt good to find
somewhere quiet. Felt good to be ankle
deep in the river, to be knee deep in the
river. Felt good to get your hair wet. Felt
good to let the mud on your legs dry in the
sun. Felt good to dig your hands through to
cool earth. Felt good to close your eyes. Felt
good when he touched you just as a breeze
went hushhh through the trees. Smelled like
rain, and God, that felt good. It felt good.

I have this hot pink heart with lace taped to the edges,
and these deep, deep truths that I suspect might be lies;
I have this system for secrets and, though softly imperfect,
I do have a pair of magnificent thighs.
I have this floodplain soul that's a place for the thirsty
and *****, but sometimes it's still not enough.
I cradle my faults like things that need saving, and
sometimes I burn with shame just like with love.
I have this leaf in my hair that I picked up while walking;
it was pretty, that early, still covered in frost.
It's not much, what I have, but it's more than I came with.
I'm counting my blessings since you counted your loss.

Until now, my best work yet: a boat, a love, the Leonids.
Quite beautiful as heartbreaks go, a near miss on a midnight
lake, with wishes dropping left and right. I laughed at that,
said take me back, and until then, I thought I meant
to shore. Nice story; camera fixed on Indian Point, boat exits
left 'neath fireworks, sponsored by the Galaxy, brought to you
by Tunnelvision. Cue piano, pretentious fin, but then
you – a star: hotter than those meteors, colder than those
miles of lake. I wrote you in, rough draft, known as
the man who loved this woman best, but take your bow;
you've been recast: the man who loved this woman last.

Forgiveness as a chosen way's
like bringing home a cagey stray;
it may bite, despite good will,
but tend your wounds, and feed it still.

When I was eight, I threw a rock at my cat.
I wanted something to love me, and he
didn't. Unfamiliar with rage and unskilled
at throwing rocks, I missed and hit the fence.
I was and am ashamed of this.
I wasn't that kind of kid.

Once, a boy sent me photos from Scotland,
daybreak over  the snowy moors where he
hunted grouse with his father. He was skinny,
and sweet. I stopped writing him because I
had a thousand words for love, and he
couldn't spell any of them.

And once, I took your love for granted. It was vanity;
I felt like the lost works of a prolific master.
I wanted someone to delight in discovering me,
to wonder where I had been. It was easy to
blame you; all those years and you didn't
know what you had.

If you believe in all possible universes,
I aimed for the fence and hit the cat.
I married a sweet, skinny boy who will never
love a poem. I never had anything to prove
and I don't need you to forgive me.