I used to know the constellations.
I could name them even on foggy nights
because I knew where they would be,
I knew how they would move.
Last summer I flew to you
and your face and arms were covered
with new freckles to discover –
I spent the year studying them.
We sat on rocks
by the water in Rhode Island and watched
helplessly while a bird twisted
its wing around. It could not fly.
Now one hundred and three degree days
have me hiding indoors with
a Russian novel.
I knew you once,
the way that the ocean knows the sky,
I knew you.
We never finished one another’s sentences,
but sometimes we spoke in unison.
Sometimes we smelled the lilacs in the same breath.
I thought we were playing pooh sticks
as I watched you drifting away.
I ran to the riverbank
to find a bird with its wing twisted.
He would not let me touch him.
I knew you once.
The way a moose knows the woods of Maine,
I knew you.
I do not know goodbye.
I only know that there will be
unfamiliar freckles.
I wonder how you smile when the moon shines.
I cannot remember the man in the moon,
or anything else worth
smiling for.
I felt your scars and the arch of your brow,
the place on your calves where your wellingtons rubbed the hair away.
I knew each freckle like a mark on a map
across your skin.
I do not know these new freckles
you have grown in the Summer sun
on your new adventures without me.
I do not recognize these landmarks,
and I am lost.
I used to know the constellations.
I could name them even on foggy nights
because I knew where they would be,
I knew how they would move.
1 thought on “The Last Pages of Anna Karenina by Catherine Garbinsky”