Carole’s curtailed life lives upon my bedside

table within a noir portrait where shadows

bewitch eyesight, her high cheeks contour

and begin to twitch come midnight

a time when once we would have our way

with one another in showers of verbal

exaltation or physical ambience

arms around arms, legs interlocked,

mouths touching then humming hymns

appropriate to our sacred ceremonies

where we alone determined boundaries

encouraged experimentation, nurtured

dreams of a future unhindered by doubts,

fears, or reservations. Yet where Carole’s

gone, I cannot follow; what she now knows

I cannot comprehend. During summer

nights or wintry storms, her static, bold,

endearing, ever fragile burnt sienna photo

comforts a memory—reflects a frozen moment—

which in itself will fade when I die alone.