Shresta Bangaru

To my roommate of four years

Warm night in June, 
And I heard you through the wall, crying softly. 
Dog’s tail thumping on the floor, 
Trying to comfort you. 
In the morning, I made eggs the way you like–
Scrambled. 
But you wouldn’t have any. 
I didn’t say this, but, 
I think often of how the apartment smelled of us, 
Like something we grew. 
How even now, two years out, 
I still find Percy’s fur on my winter coat. 
I stopped using lint rollers. 
It’s already two in the afternoon, 
And you’re at your desk.
Come, sit, let’s watch TV.

My Best Kept Secret

How, on the cusp of fall, in the evenings, 
The sun doesn’t set. 
The sky turns upwards, bit by bit, and glows pink. 
How the floorboards blush. 

Droplets of water cover my shoulders.
I sit on the bed, 
Sheets sticking to my legs just a little. 

My ribs feel delicate. 
How they hug me looser, hug me tighter, 
With every breath. 

My reflection in the window, 
Pale and too far to touch. 
How the birds sent from God to sing in the morning, 
Are hush now. 

All this lasts only minutes before dark. 
I will reach back for it forever–
To be 23 in my room and watch the world spin outside my window,
Only to grab at nothing.

I suppose some things cannot even be remembered. 

August 2005