after i said
what i shouldn’t have said,
after the words settled as dust
on a cluttered kitchen table,
i turned, and tumbled into a photo on the fridge
of you, me and the girl between us.
i got tangled in its grinning trinity
and couldn’t tell whether the hand cradling her back
was yours or mine—
lean, tanned fingers, or mine in shadow?
nails clean-cropped or ragged with worry?
and just when i’d almost worked out
whether it was your beginning or my ending,
the glass i was filling overflowed
and wept cold tears of surprise.