The Things He Brought Me Poem by Jenny Kalahar

He brought me a book of poetry
with my cup of coffee
too late one evening
when it should have been water and a book of goodnight stories
in a black-and-white binding
recovered from my childhood
half-asleep on my parents' bed
a breeze flying in sheer curtains
nightfrogs already turning pages
to the one about dish and spoon and moon

He brought me a book of poetry
and opened to a short stanza I'd dreamed of the night before
I was certain
as every word felt familiar
like a recent memory
like a song I used to sing
sitting in an apple tree
counting the wormy spots on each green ball
suspended like yesterdays
like things from an ancient orchard
instead of something that should be there within my lifetime

He brought me a book of poetry
and I stopped listening
when the words turned dark
and I fell into my coffee
spilling my soul into the cup
right along with my exposed body, up to my head
the words blacker than my ears could hear
and I nearly stopped breathing,
shocked that my friend would say such things
there in the middle of my vulnerability
there in the middle of the night.
But then I listened again
and found that I'd imagined too much
interpreted too wrongly
pushed meaning where there was none
as I do
and I recovered enough to climb a spoon to the rim of my cup
sat on its edge
and cooled as the moon looked down and laughed
at the drops of purpleblue soul
dripping from my too-long hair