Her face is wrinkled and puckered – caved in with the force of laughing.
She is old like chance or fate.
She will talk and smile, but no matter how you try to record yourself within her…
Memories to her are like cobwebs in meadowgrass in a night breeze,
while in the daylight reflections of her shimmer and glint with the wind.
Squaw Valley is a basin set high in the side of the Sierras,
a cup in the flank of the earth held aloft under the stars.
Whatever you say to her,
whatever you think through from within you and press within her,
it does not add up inside her.
Later, you will fall in love with her friend and she will laugh with happiness and agree and arrange a date for two but never tell you.
And her friend, whom you love, will sit alone at the table with the
candlelight in her tears
wondering at how you left her alone,
her dark hair shimmering against the almond skin of her throat,
and all of it fading into the evening gloom.
There is not malice, just forgetfulness. In her, connections are lost.
I remember every word she speaks, but when the sun rises she knows nothing of what I told her
in the dark,
while the earth ground on its axis and the light sped toward us.
