REMEMBERING LATER IT’S THE ANNIVERSARY OF WHEN MY MOTHER AND FATHER ELOPED

now dust under
the same maple
years after they
didn’t talk. Too
dazed to notice
it’s July, June’s
gulped. That
night in Vermont,
her suitcase with
a camisole she
bought for another
man who would
threaten suicide
hearing of my
other’s sudden
move. Letters on
palest blue paper
with blue ink, how
in his grief he
fell off a hay wagon
and, if not death,
he’d escape to
Paraguay. His blue
blues colors my
mother’s life
long after her
rash move

by Lyn Lifshin