by Anna Dodson
A part of me thinks I loved you most
that summer. Amid sickness and in health,
we took the furthest parking spot,
then plundered empty grocery aisles.
Each with our own mini-shopping cart
to parallel-play in hoodies and shorts,
we blocked an entire row. You said,
“Aren’t we being so domestic?”
You stood so close I could count
every blond eyelash. I’m pretty sure
Romance novels include details like that,
but I’m no good at marriage plots.
I know this much is true: There’s nothing
you can’t do, but I worried often
about your worry lines. You were the sky,
I the ocean, and blue our best reflection.
Then you leaned over casually, as if to smell
Dove’s Clean Comfort, and kissed me
with midnight tenderness. Your beard was soft,
and I felt eternity pounding in my ears.