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A photograph of you
and me fell between
my knees on a beach
dropped by a waiter
with a piña colada
and a growl in his voice:
I was told to give you this.

I lifted the straw hat
off my face. I don’t
like sweet drinks.

Not this. That.
He pointed to
a place strangers
shouldn’t point.
I sat up.

The picture
was taken in
on the side of
a mountain,
Kelowna, B.C.

You were wearing
the smile that always
got you a second piece
of pie and not much else,
stretched across the
timothy, knee dropped
in front of majestic details
I used to love to sketch.

Me, I knelt behind you
with the slightly glazed
look of an auto-timed shot,
my bare arms spread:
Look what I caught!

A shadow fell
across me just as
I was starting to
compare my boobs
of then to now.

They’re perfect.
Always will be.

And I looked into
the face of you, ten
years on, the aqua crystal
ocean and your eyes
conspired from the same
divine, insoluble palette.

Your legs apart,
steeple-tall and lean,
I moved my gaze to
your belly hair that curls
when wet and tastes
of things to come.

I came by jet,
you said, soon
as I heard.

I knew then as
I’ve always known
I am in love to stay
in love with you.


© Elaine Stirling, 2013