Lisa Mecham




There’s No Way to Arrange It


without seeing each other
so request the two-top by the window.
Just a light embrace when she arrives,
shaking her umbrella, trying to catch
your eye. As you sit, decline the bread.
Fingers trace the glass rim, circle
the wedding band in your pocket, all around
her open mouth, butter so soft
it spoils when you reach across the table.
Swallow the café's din, the brim
of infinity, down it with silence.
Deliver the ending.
She'll look away.
Excuse yourself.
In the restroom mirror see you,
your wife, thin mouth skin turned down,
your son, fingernail moons unrisen. 
Don't think of her, out there.
Her legs pressed, the dark in between
and what it absorbs.
There are boundaries to the universe.
When gravity pulls you back
she will be gone.
Just a greasy streak across the table.
The umbrella, slack on the floor.