It is both selfish of me and not
to ask you to stay a little longer.
The mountains are playing that game
where one of them wears a cloud as a veil
and then the others follow.
They are forcing us to play.
They are asking us to dedicate the day
to the books on the bottom shelf.
This encyclopedia has entries on Yugoslavia
and Rhodesia. And you know what it’ll say
about Pluto. We are more than the listed
four billion, but we can count on this ancient
Roman map of constellations and this ear-marked
image of a sleepy Andean bear.
Let’s do that thing again where I pretend
not to reach the cup with the sugar cubes and then
snatch a few when you aren’t looking.
Yes, let’s play that game where I take
all the dirt out of the flower pots, but this time
tell me the flowers’ names and I’ll remember.
Sure, we can call your husband, but I’m not sure he’ll come.
I’ll bring you each a glass of Malbec and drink
from his glass while we wait. You can also drink,
though the doctors say no. Stay
and you’ll drink from the glass like your grown
grandchildren and you’ll realize I’ve filled my pockets
with your silver boxes again. Wait and I’ll grow
light enough for you to pick me up by the ankles.
Hold me until all the boxes rattle on the floor
and I’ll proudly rearrange them on the table.
Stay and I’ll fetch some coffee.
Stay and I’ll find a better movie.
Stay and we’ll look at the clouds dispel
and you’ll tell me names they taught you in school
and I’ll remember.
— Maria Richardson