BRAND NEW
after “cardigan” by Taylor Swift
I knew you once, back then, many years ago,
time worn and yellowed like old paper. The door I walked
through and then another door. I took the subway to the High Line
and picked my way along the weeds. And the season was sour
which was strange; normally I love when the air warms
and the pigeons plump, heads nesting in their bodies’
round cradles. Ivy tendrils grew along the guardrails,
fingerprinting pale greens and browns. I pulled the thorns
out of my cardigan sleeve. When you are young
no one asks you anything. But I wanted to know it all:
where did we leave all our lavender? What broken treehouse
did we find ourselves underneath? Things had been sour so long,
corrosive and thick like metal pressing on the tongue.
And at the end of it all, this is what I know:
I will never be the way I have been. I will never
know that child again. I left all that you wanted from me,
I told you, I tried to change the ending.
Those years ago the month tumbled and left in its oldest car,
the smell of smoke hung low until it drifted into the dusk.
The cedars shook their heads in reproach. The leaves browned and fell.
The clouds on your face— I see it now— sharp like a bloodstain.
I don’t know what to remember anymore.
