Marchmont Road

by Gianna Sannipoli

I don’t say your name anymore
unless it’s on a street sign
or accidentally in prayer.
Everything you said was gone
came back as coincidence.
I cross Greenhill,
to Marchmont Hardware,
on the street where
a postman says your name
and I have to tell him
you don’t love me
but this tie clip is opal
and metaphorically engraved
and I meant to send it earlier
but you left before I could
so now it’s getting there
after the fact and
we’re always a bit late,
but that’s our thing,
and I tell him I don’t know
if you’ll write back
but you always do,
eventually, kind of,
so I desperately need
to open a P.O. box
under your name,
that way when you’re ready,
angel-winged creature,
of deep, seraphic breaths,
you can finally tell me
the reason you followed
the marble birds in flight,
and most importantly,
what God tastes like.