When I remember.
She was always the optimist.
TRUE LOVE BY LARS ROGERS 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 121
When I remember,
she washes now in the basin where I’ve been planning
on moisturising my face. Bricks from the landfill stacked
neatly in her pickup truck. She worked today—I planned on helping.
Just now, I’d been remembering—
it’s too bad.
She washes now
her face in the mirror, delaying getting
around to Googling that thing she was supposed to know.
I moisturise my face—home from the air,
across from her shoulders, after traversing the city, driving her truck
back from collecting bricks at the landfill. All at once,
I remember. When
we had brave plans—as humans fail. To build an oast house
out the back of the garden. I’d always struggled to believe in this world. In dream,
there was always another bed frame: a wetland
dried from its inhabitants—enough to lose faith in. This was my problem.
I remember, she
was always the optimist; always the winner—persevering. In dream, forgetting;
there was always another option…