That day, we read poetry in the graveyard. Side by side under an ancient oak, we lingered over imagery, debated metaphor and meaning. Keats, Dickinson, Barrett Browning. We tasted these dishes and delighted in the flavors. Your green eyes sharpened as you disparaged a sonnet. Defending it, I tripped over my words. Then the first drops of rain fell. Gently at first, then harder, harder still. We left the lichen-covered stones with names long obscured. I raised the umbrella. You placed your jacket over my shoulders. The scent of you surrounded me, resurrecting the memory of senior prom when I slow-danced with my boyfriend, all heat and soap and aftershave. He had beer in the trunk of his rented Camaro. I didn’t like the taste, so I didn’t finish it. When I refused to get in the back seat, he drove me home without a word. But you, leaving the graveyard, reached for my hand and asked what we should read next. We navigated the wet sidewalk to my apartment. I said Come in, and you followed me, naming poets.
Claudia Wair is a Black American writer from Virginia whose work has appeared in Pithead Chapel, Astrolabe, JMWW, Writers Resist, and elsewhere. You can read more at claudiawair.com, or find her on Bluesky @CWTellsTales.bsky.social and Instagram @CWTellsTales.