“and even you forgot those brilliant flashes seen from afar”
—Ruth Stone

I should have taken you up on that trip to Mexico—
my only chance to swim in the gulf, to surf
the exotic and erotic; tequila, bizarro birds,
burnished sunrise through slats in the shutters,
instead of a turndown. My big mistake was to play
the fool—too cool for school. I should have held you
in my strong arms, dissolved my icy resolve,
scrawled your name on a wall. I should have
bared my breasts, kicked caution to oblivion
and unzipped my lips. I should have clutched you
—my passport to bliss—until every page was tattooed
and tattered. I should have slicked my brows,
polished my nails, packed my snorkel and bikini—
strapped you on tight and not blown off that flight.