River Roads

It was my first trip back to Boston
after your breathless rush, crammed boxes
stacked like fortresses against my grief,
into the arms of another woman,
the first time I had courage enough
to stand on that steaming sidewalk
outside the yellow and green communal house
we'd years ago called home.

Upstairs, in that room, the one I will always
think of as our room, two shadows passed.
Pastel and gray ghosts.
Our ghosts, perhaps, lost in time, and
I was tugged suddenly up again into the memories.
Your mouth against mine.
The clamor of voices from the communal kitchen.
That strip of lace tacked lopsided
across the crate holding your shirts, my blouses.
My red hat lobbed across the bed, hair
tumbling carelessly down my back.
I was lost again to days we once thought
would merge, one into the other,
carrying us along as easily as a river
runs down to the sea.


Pris Campbell
©2006


Published in The Dead Mule, Spring 2007 edition

Photograph: From the archives

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