Take Your Needles When You Go


By Marge Simon

††††††††† Tonight we walk past streets lined with frozen trees, sidewalk-gray men in cardboard suits. I show you my world of crevices and curving streets. Winter wears long hands, even the pigeons are cold. Fresh snow decorates the hydrants, zircon lights beneath a womanís moon. I think of kissing you, but you see that in my eyes. You shake your head, no. I dust the flakes from your scarf, touch your face before you turn away. ďToo late?Ē I say. You nod. Maybe when my world dies altogether. Maybe then.
††††††††† I know your breasts hiding in the thick wool, the length of your thigh, the smell of us, white wine and
Hendrix. You on the floor in my shirt, unfashionable for Wesleyan. Take your needles when you go, Iíve run out of veins. I want to say this, but I donít. Itís not about pain. Someone is playing a jazz harp, forms move in the flickering light. We stop to watch, but they turn to shadows, itís a private thing. Go back to school. Iíll fix the sink while youíre away, plug the leaks with broken glass.