It was my turn to pack lunches

if you remember like I do.

Slapping peanut butter and jam

on bread by rote, I stopped, came to,

wondered why. I mean, what the hell,

we had just slept in separate rooms.

After stiffly striding into

a dark gray sky, you would be back

with suitcases and a grim friend

to pack up your failed life with me,

a map I’d hoped would stay opened.

Staring for minutes at smeared bread,

the most I could think of to do

was the least: finish and bag up,

get one small thing right: my promise.

You don’t remember like I do,

and for all I know chucked the lunch

right in the trash. I mean, that this

is the image I return to

should gum up all my self-regard,

put in clear relief your anger

about ways I disappointed.

My brain cramps took you for granted,

snafued our plans. Deserted you.

Like opening an old fridge door

on some forgotten leftovers,

I should recoil against the smell,

gag at the green rot, and know well

what sticks to the roof of my mouth

will always remain in my heart.

Yet still I cling to that small map,

my hope. I mean, that you’ll come back.

 

John Graves Morris a graduate of Memorial High School and UW-Eau Claire, lived in the Chippewa Valley for seven years. He is Professor of English at Cameron University and the author of Noise and Stories (Plain View Press, 2008).