In February

I.

During our conversation
at the supermarket,
you said,
My body has betrayed me again, Tony -
A third time;
upon cancer
lining your menopausal ovaries.

I said,
But what if, Henriette,
this time around,
you
betrayed your body instead?

II.

Some day, Brandy Kay,
We will be on the road,
to Tennessee, Niagara
and the Adirondacks.

Under a clear blue sky,
cloudless and fragrant,
valleys and creeks shimmying
in the inconstancy of mirage,
we will hold hands
and talk of love,
adventure,
and endless possibilities.

III.

We made love
as teenagers
in the middle
of a Calendula farm -
by the bayou
in Galveston,
with Spring as our witness,
and disobedient winds.
Our breaths forming clouds,
our veins turning pink.

Since then,
we have grown 
a million miles apart. 

IV.

On nights when it rains,
and thunderbolts bisect
the pepper farms and lakes,
I want to tell you, Richmond,
a secret -
In the dark
so I may hide my tears,
my imperfections,
and the gullibility
that my face betrays.

I despise 
the color of my skin -
So much, that sometimes
when I look into
the mirror
standing in my living room,
I look through my reflection.
Trying to un-see
what faces me
permanently.