AS AFTER A THIRTY-YEARS' WAR: OLD LOVERS
Elisavietta Ritchie
They remember every word we spoke,
our coffee mit schlag or smoked oysters
served with lacy promises of eternal love
even as they moved on. Yet rivers are
always in flow, though some dry up,
leave us to plod the dusty wadi
glancing over our shoulders
in case of innundation.
Suddenly, old codgers now,
they flood or trickle back,
bony, shrunk, or bloated, hungry.
Billy goats with white bristles,
less hair on those domes, the same
cleft hooves, bunioned of late.
Once, we thought them our soulmates.
Now, we shudder: our doubles.
