– Kate Gough

Hazel eyes, see things they never could,
a new way of speaking, a muse
to the noble intrusions of art.

As lovers, we were lukewarm,
you thought
this was what people do.
Fresh pair of lies, you wouldn’t tell
me what you felt, how could you?
You didn’t know yourself.

Glasses on dry red cheeks, when we met
on that cold day in University.
Bearded and a weak smile,
pretentious, you called yourself.
We laugh, tinselly but broken,
a portrait of all the poems that creak
when I speak, black under eye circle
back to the time when I almost died.

Eyesight, a change
in vision, in direction, your memory
soaks up the lemon rinded anxiety
left over from forever ago.

As friends, no longer a norm,
I thought
we wouldn’t get through.
This time you cry, you tell
me what you have felt.
You say you wanted to kill yourself.

Glassy and stoned, when we meet
up on a cold day in Calgary,
Feeling weird, but with a real smile,
poet, you call me.
We laugh, sinfully and frozen,
a portrait of all the poems I write
about you, and the times when I realize
I am alive.