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 woman’s 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. “Too late?” 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, I’ve run out of veins. I want to say this, but I don’t. It’s not about pain. Someone is playing a jazz harp, forms move in the flickering light. We stop to watch, but they turn to shadows, it’s a private thing. Go back to school. I’ll fix the sink while you’re away, plug the leaks with broken glass.