Les enfants
ils jouent avec la fleuve.
Ils aiment le bruit
quand on jete une pierre,
et vraiment aiment
rouler sur le "petit montange"
qui guarde la monde
de l'eau de la rivere.

Climbing in a plane,
which then climbs into the sky
and I fly-
ripped from earth
and ripped from home.

Who cares that I chose this?
That this is the right path?
I am leaving home
for months.

The last drive in my car,
the last dance
(for a while)
with friends.

A sense of loss
curls in my stomach,
unwelcome.

I will be counting.

Our last smooch was sevenish
On a Monday night-
I let go of his hand
And he pressed his lips to my forehead
At almost eight on a Tuesday morning-

I will be counting
For seven months
Three weeks,
And however many days and hours
It takes me
To hold his hand
And know there will never
Be an ocean between us again.

I want to stay like this forever,
The heat easing in its oppression;
The sky clear and bright
While soft summer leaves glimmer green;
Your shoulders next to mine,
Warm and yours;
Your voice in my ear every now and again.