The night we first met, I wasn’t living
in a ‘78 station wagon lurking in the playground shadows of the parking lot.

You weren’t drunk that night
when you told me what love meant and that it most resembled me. Wind on my
face
doesn’t remind me of the summer nights I’ve surrender to wild heat too soon.

The clenched fist sky opened up
to feed me strawberries. That’s the real reason I was late. His lovemaking could
never compare to yours. Your awkward hips knocking against my thighs didn’t
feel like revenge that night. You never saw me cry

and pretend not to notice. The first baby was not an accident. The two that
followed
weren’t mistakes. None of them were constant reminders
of my miscalculations of time or cursed calendars. And none of them have his smile
instead of yours.