How we knew, as friends:
the necklace, my painted masks exchanged.
We were not lovers but once, I fancied, in love
the way artists loved.
She carved toys out of clay while I watched from the couch,
made flowers, skulls, sold them all the same.
I was not a poet then. I never sold my masks,
and never kept them either.
Later, I pretended she died. It gave sense to the hurt
when my letters returned.
And I kept the knives, the shadow box,
until they broke.
Never before have I known an artist as an artist.
Or myself.
Some nights we sat on that couch, sculpting,
her with clay, me from class,
making.
Then, one day:
nothing. She the sculptor went away.
I became otherwise and later,
a poet.
We haven’t spoken in years but
my friend, unmentioned:
should you live,
I love you still.
I never understood why men were accused of dogness.
No dog ever did me harm.
∞
