Your Marie

Every time I see the name
Marie I can’t help but think of her
Marie at fifteen who allowed
your fingers to roam the loamy furrows
of her body and taught you how
a man was. I want to tell you
that I think it was she I saw
last night. She said her name
Marie the way you said it
and threw her head back and laughed
so that her eyes opened as wide
as her smile and I knew this
had to be her – the one you loved
so long ago – so much.
You should know her hair was chestnut,
a flag of copper stars glittering
against the curve of her neck
and the strand that kissed her cheek
I knew you’d kissed when she left you
for the last time while her hips rolled
when she walked away
and her breasts swayed in dreams
even now the ones you prayed into.