06.07.02 - 7:03 p.m.

the symbol of a perfect marriage is sitting on
my finger - i can see her saying yes,
giggling, black curls bobbing, hand over mouth and
eyes tiny slits. fifty years later she
would recline on the couch
with her feet in his lap, reading, drinking iced tea
and he would breathe in crackly old jazz records,
operas, repeating lines, translating them.

when she died he made me mixtapes full of
long-gone soulful women and lovesick men
the hiss of his ancient phonograph keeping time.