We find a bench.
I sit with him as if I can barely recall
what he did to me in bed that night.
I let it go for now so we can talk.
We’ve always been good at that.
He tries out his loony theory
about the masculinity of red wine,
unaware that since his death
the word has holed itself up
in a cabin in the woods, loaded for bear.
I let it pass. He turns
to asking questions freighted
with the wish my life’s gone well.
I see the old blue kitchen.
One Sunday after breakfast,
my chin cupped in his palm,
his index finger tapping my face
to count aloud the freckles, one-by-one.
A hundred and two, he beams,
as if I’ve won a prize.
