Jesus Meets the Women of Jerusalem

I watched you kiss the kid in Carharts
playing pool in the Old Timer’s Tavern.
You slammed shots, laughed too loud,
and slipped out the back door.
You came home at 8 AM, wet from the rain,
and we never talked about it.
Once we went to Seattle to hear Carmina Burana
and on the way home we stood at the prow
of the Bremerton ferry, drank vending machine
coffee and cognac, and I was King of the World
for forty minutes, until I got home
and stood alone beneath the blossoming tree.
Then one day you finally rode with that truck driver
to whom you swore Undying Love for somewhere
in Queens, New York, and talked of welcoming
the New Year from Times Square,
but you got out in Indiana and called for bus fare
and I didn’t see you for three months,
and when you came home you had a tattoo
on your left breast.
And when your daughter was born too early,
lived for two days, and was gone,
you refused to give her a name
so I made one up for that doctor
who filled out the last forms and
someone wrote it on her stone.