A Hint of Lime
His itchy ears perk up at the mention of
jerk chicken, sunset lulls, and
making love in sand beds –
but most of the time, the hints I leave
are subtle – clues tucked into sheet folds,
couch cushions, trouser pockets.
So many clues to my Innisfree,
my Rockland – they've begun to overflow.
He jokes, says This Is Our Longest Running Joke.
The cushions are frayed, the pockets
in need of mending.
Sepia hints, salt-rimmed hints,
pictures, buttons, the old t-shirt
I wore to bed. My snow boots
(the left in the cellar by the dryer,
the right in the kitchen under the sink),
a diet Coke, blue socks,
my favorite sweater – things
I won't need once I'm there.
I find him in the soupy evening
on our front lawn – barefoot,
breathless, eyes rimmed violet
and grinning. I ask about his arms,
coated in sunscreen, the beach towels
draping his shoulders, palm branches
fanning from the pockets of his
swim trunks – a mock display
of all of my clues.
He cries his knowledge at me–saying
Game Over, I've Figured It Out, saying
Not Like You Were Ever Gonna Leave.
I laugh – ask, Wanna Bet – and watch
his beady eyes narrow, his bare toes
drain – sand white – digging into our dirt.
He cries Too Far and See If I Care.
My clues litter the yard – left behind
like I'd planned it or something.