The Lighthouse's Lament
I
A house
Count down the days until she leaves.
Day 200:
She stuffs me with her pie recipes
Old family photos
Third generation quilt
Paints me a new color
Or really
Paints me the eggshell white
I once was
In vintage yellowed photographs
Found in my attic
Day 179:
She plants tulip bulbs
In front of
My bay windows
That complement the fresh coat of paint
Better than the daffodils scattered wild
In my yard
Day 165:
They sit on the bench
In the garden
His insides coil
The sky and sea blur together
No horizon
Only blue
He is trapped
In the illusion of her tomorrow
Day 151:
She went out to town
He packs a bag
Takes the boat
Leaves
There was a note
But it got lost behind
The end table
Day 137:
She climbs up my tower
Fixes my lightbulb
I hear her car-alarm heart thump with every revolution
Where is he?
Where is he?
Where is he?
Day 126:
She looks to the sea
And hopes the blessed waves
Consistently gracing her
With their presence
Will bring him back
But the gnashing mouths of water
Eating the endless night sky leave only
Carcasses of the ocean
That now line the shelves in my living room.
Day 124:
She emails him at 3:00 AM
Greets moon’s glow as an old friend
Asks where he is
Let me know if you need anything else
Hand extending toward a person who
Jerks the arm out of her socket
But does not
Reach back
Day 83:
I cannot protect her
From the rain
That slips and drips
Its way through
My cracks
Space craters
She punches my walls
Causing bruises
Ruptures
Means to find him there
In the map of her mistakes
Same way she looks for him
In the roots of her plants
Veins in her wrist
Rivers coursing
Roads looping
Bridges crossing
All this searching
Colliding with him
Eventually
Day 76:
I cannot tell her
That she won’t find him there
I cannot tell her
That it is not a map of her mistakes
I cannot speak
I cannot even
protect her
From the rain
All I can do
Is search with every revolution
For a sign
If it would only keep her going
But I can reach light so far
To tell her he swims outside my radius
Day 43:
He finally responds
Sails in another lighthouse’s orbit now
Does not need anything else
Does not want his razor back
His towel
His tool box
He wants to forget
But he ignores
The fact that
He has already taken
Her light
Without asking
And she is not getting it back
Day 14:
She boxes up the
Pie recipes
Throws out the seashells
Guts my insides
Keeps the wallpaper
Strangers walk in
Traipsing across my foyer
Children giggle in my tower
Old men trample the flowers in my yard
Day 1:
Her father’s green pickup truck
Whisks her away to new adventures
To me
She was afternoon summer showers
Good morning kisses
Easter eggs of vibrant creation
To her
I was the choked bonfire
Resting in her empty belly
The last dangling string
To be yanked from her memory
I
A house
Still stands
I
A house
Stained from imprints
Of oils
From her skin
I
A house
Whisper the
Uttered words
Of her time with me
In the flittering fragrance
Of her flowers
And the stinging salt air
Of the sea
She
The owner
Is temporary
But not forgotten