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You and I?
We've gone all this distance
in yardage, in years. And still our bed widens.
Consider,
distance is also a verb:
We distance ourselves from each other.
We grow apart.
A true contradiction:
Grow means to flourish. You and I diminish apart.
When did I write those words? A thousand years ago?
What continental divide once separated us?
When did we defy geography?
Today, just the thought of living without you
startles like the sight of a car crash,
jostles me awake at night.
The sidewalk narrows, I draw close,
Press my breast into your elbow
as we cross against the light.
© by Diana Anhalt.
Used with the author’s permission.
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Diana Anhalt was born in New York, but lived in Mexico for many years before moving to Atlanta, Georgia to be closer to family. A former high school teacher, editor, and civic leader, she is the author of A Gathering of Fugitives: American Political Expatriates in Mexico 1947-1965 (Archer Books), five chapbooks, and numerous essays, short stories, and book reviews in both English and Spanish.
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diana.anhalt:
Would like to thank you all for your lovely comments. It always means a great deal. Diana
Posted 02/12/2016 11:19 AM
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twinkscat:
Lovely poem, Diana! So nice meeting you in San Miguel. I am enjoying your chapbook.
Posted 02/11/2016 05:49 PM
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cbmasem:
You nailed it! Really catches the meaning of being married 45 years as I have been.
Posted 02/11/2016 11:36 AM
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Lori Levy:
Beautiful poem, especially the last stanza.
Posted 02/11/2016 10:19 AM
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rnordstrom:
lovely, lovely poem
Posted 02/11/2016 08:44 AM
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rhonasheridan:
Such a good poem.
Posted 02/11/2016 05:06 AM
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