I don’t think I ever brought
my sotto to your voce,
my custom to your fit,
my ultra to your marine.
I know you did not bring
your vice to my versa,
your soft shell to my crab,
your burnt to my umber.
We’re both to blame
for the meager flame
of our knock-down love,
with its instruction sheet
in six languages, none of which
we both spoke. We built
a three-legged table
incapable of holding dinner
or a place to play chess. Us,
the rogue king and queen.
I could have brought my check
to your mate. And you
could have brought
your desert to my island.
Perhaps if we had brought
sienna, we could have made
a warmer picture.
