I Was You

By Mary McGinnis

With winter over your ashes some 16 years ago,

I was you, a happy, exhilarated host,

offering the new lovers tea, juice, apples,

cheese, Rye Vita crackers,

cedar lotion. You forever in your dark and light your

splendor of generosity for them both, one slender,

one tall. They were exes

from this and that but now with each other.

And once again I was you the other night,

hosting another friend,

roasting and roasting potatoes and serving

an everything-in-it salad.

We told each other drug stories, her best

acid trip, my lousy mescalin trip, and the time

you didn’t hear the punch was spiked, and drank

glass after glass, watching colors all night.

I could have been you, eating morning glory cookies,

but I didn’t have a daughter who left them on the counter.

I had you with me when I complained

about hate-rich people who don’t understand the GMO issue.

I can still be you in an onrush of joy,

following the sound of one unknown bird.