2 March 2003 | Vol. 3, No. 1

Letter to Brigid Strong

by EMILIO IASIELLO

Sometimes it's the color red

in a weave or the sun north of Rome

or the rubber band around a two-hole punch

                    and suddenly I'm there again—

my jacket on the floor,

two cans of beer, Billie Holiday.

We dodged our friends

to get back early, fingers

on buttons, the long sigh

of your zipper. The mattress springs

groaned and whined

with our weight. When I think

of how I whispered I've loved you

since that first day, I never thought

it would have led to

skidding down the snow path,

your heel breaking, our first kiss.

I never would have believed

that eight years later

I would remember what you wore,

and how you took it off,

and how it began to snow

as we lay dizzy with alcohol,

Billie crooning for a Lover Man

from the speakers,

the slow February night pushing

in from the corners.