Months later

I imagine you
return in the clothes
I laid out for you.

How perfectly they
fit your form;
made for you, I think.

We sit down to the feast
we never shared.

Did I, after all, misconstrue
your style? Or did your shape
shift beneath collapsing fabric?

Still hungry, I wonder what you wear now,
whether I would know you.

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13 comments

  1. Barbara Wanquist · · Reply

    Lovely and sad. Life is fleeting…

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    1. Indeed. Thanks, Bucky.

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  2. Ah, Cate. So poignant. The “feast we never shared” is a brilliant line. I’ve felt too many of those unshared feasts in my life.

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    1. Thanks, Bob; it’s always good to have you reading. The missed feasts wouldn’t be so painful if the appetite did not persist. Wishing you well, my poet friend.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. It takes a lot to suppress my appetite!

        Liked by 1 person

        1. Well, you don’t need to, now, do you? Maybe I’ll be in that circumstance again, too, one day.

          Liked by 1 person

        2. That is true. But I still regret those feasts missed for various reasons over the years.

          Liked by 1 person

  3. Mary Montoya · · Reply

    Cate your poem evoked that sadness for me too, of thinking we know a person in all their complexities. I love the description of intimacy of clothing them, as well as a knowing of how they appear in the world to us. And your analogy of hunger and feasting evoked for me the longing to share a knowing of a taste of something we love with another. Also, recently discovering my husband of many years sees the turquoise color I see, as the color blue … is just the beginning of understanding the complexities of our actual differing realities. This poem also took me to many other places. Grateful for you and your writing Cate.

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    1. Thank you, Mary. It’s probably impossible for any one person to truly know another. And if research (and hindsight) is any indication, the time we are actually in attunement with each other — truly aligned at a deep level — is small, certainly smaller than we hope and often assume. What you say about you and Wes seeing color differently is a good straightforward sensory example; as you imply, our hearts are far more complex.

      So good to hear from you, my friend. Thank you for reading, and for your sweet appreciation.

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  4. This is a sad and wonderful poem.

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    1. Thank you. I appreciate you.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. You are most welcome. I love your poems. I try to read at least three poem post everyday. Yours are always included.

        Like

        1. I’m honored. I read several a day, too; the Poetry Foundation’s daily e-mail has introduced me to wonderful poets. (Jack Gilbert’s “A Brief for the Defense” is among my all-time favorites.) Robert Okaji — a Texan recently transplanted to your fair state — is a master poet, blogging at “O at the Edges.”

          Thanks again, Molly. As you know, we throw our words into the void, never knowing where — or if — they land. It’s good to sometimes hear they have.

          Liked by 1 person

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