Someone has spilled summer fruit-
muskmelon, cantaloupe, honeydew, peaches-
down the steps.
The ice cream man is quiet
and the girls have stopped jumping rope.
You stay in your room
like an unopened letter
and my hair tumbles down
like the hair of women in mourning.
You blame me for all this
as if I didn't ache, too,
and the sun, on the day we broke apart,
opened her hands full of night.
Julie Parson-Nesbitt
Finders, copyright 1996 West End Press. Used with permission.
