Patrick Dundon

The Morning After a Really Good First Date

I text him, then see
the flickering ellipsis
like stepping stones
to a life in which
we are riding horses
on the beach and rain
lands on our faces
like a thousand little
christenings and
no one will ever be sad
again. But he doesn’t
text back, so I walk
to the park where
three years ago
Kristian unbuckled
my belt as the street-
lamps deposited their
recycled light onto
our unsuspecting
stomachs. I know
the heart is a muscle
with memory, like my
fingers that can still
play Chopin’s nocturne
in E-flat major, the
sadness planted
into my child hands,
a delicate promise.
I want to be foolish,
to be at the bar again
across from Kristian,
taking the first sip
of the second drink,
then in bed, his body
curling like a petal
as he comes. Today
my heart is a zip-lock
bag, the plastic teeth
in perfect alignment,
keeping the world out,
or holding it in, I can’t
tell which. I turn off
my phone. But still
I am waiting
for a text, for a sign
that my life will rise
like the carriage
of a ferris wheel
into the carnival dark.