We’ve lived in these bodies so long.
Don’t think about their diminished condition,
the damage gravity has done,
don’t worry if our legs feel papery.
I like the way they intertwine
on the old blue sheets.
Forget that your beard’s now flecked with white,
that what once seemed merely sun lines
are crow’s feet etched in deep symmetry on my face.
Ignore the muscle cramps that interrupt our play.
Your eyes are the dark eyes
That saw me that first night.
Your right hand is the same one
that brushed against me. You leaned over to
open the car door for me,
spilling me out onto the sidewalk.
I slid out, muttered thanks, goodnight—
Turned at the front steps, perplexed,
went home when I should have turned back to you.
Lynne Viti teaches in the Writing Program at Wellesley College. Her poetry chapbook, Baltimore Girls, (Finishing Line) was published in March 2017. She has also published most recently in Pen-in-Hand, Light, The South Florida Poetry Journal, Little Patuxent Review, Mountain Gazette, Amuse-Bouche, Paterson Review, and Right Hand Pointing. She blogs at stillinschool.wordpress.com. Find her on Twitter@LynneViti.