July 15, 2025

ides
for Andrea Gibson
(August 13, 1975-July 14, 2025)

We ordered too much for dinner, took the rest home. 
Later, I’ll peel the foil back, turn the oven on, probably burn
my tongue on the first bite, make a mess of my napkin,
perhaps feel the slight disappointment of eating the same meal that,
just yesterday, was accompanied by the sound of clinking glasses 
and a bowl of olives speckled with salt and embellished with a single
blue pansy. But standing in the kitchen, wiping my mouth
whose corners glisten with oil, maybe I’ll think of the barn cat who came 
out of nowhere to lay herself on the warm pebbles by the picnic table 
where we ate, how she stretched so far I was certain she was making
an invitation of her belly, and the feeling of placing my palm
against her and the engine that met me there and the way her eyes turned
in my direction but seemed to look at something past my shoulders.
Later, I’ll put my plate in the dishwasher and wipe up the crumbs and July
will swing forward on its noisy hinges. I’ll put on my shoes and walk
with a friend. I don’t know what we’ll talk about, only that the sound
of our voices will make a kind of concert, the way voices always do.
I picture us now, getting to that part of the road where the view opens up
and things feel limitless. Maybe we’ll stop. Maybe we’ll keep going.