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When you ask me what I remember,
don't ask about the other girl
who shared my name
and his attention.
Don't ask about mangos,
and why he talks of them
falling on my head,
or staying up all night,
waiting for the phone to ring.
When you ask me what I remember,
don't ask me
whether it was really love,
or if any of our friends approved.
Don't ask about promises
or tears
or how how foolish I was.
Instead, ask me
if I allowed myself to breathe
when he put his arms around me,
if he let me shift gears
while he was driving,
if he laced his fingers with mine
between our seats
and held my gaze as long as he could
without swerving off the road.
When you ask me what I remember,
ask about our secret trip to his grandfather's
cabin on the Russian River,
how we had to break in
and played poker in the twilight.
Ask about the music we traded,
Beethoven for Hendrix,
how we each admit,
nearly a decade later,
we cannot listen
for fear of it hurting too much.

10/12/04