She turns the glass over beneath
the running water, absently rinsing
as she looks past the kitchen window.
Remember when we lived in Denmark?
But we never lived there, did we?
We were just on holiday, but still
it seemed so homey in January as we ate
our little drømmekage with our coffees.
But certainly we lived in London?
she asks, as she dries the plates
with a faded cotton dish towel.
No, really, we rode the Tube every day
and I distinctly remember buying
an umbrella. Or perhaps it was only days.
What about the beach house in Saba?
We wintered there two years, I think.
No? Then why do I remember the sunsets
so well? Campari and bitter orange skies
sifting into night and that wild dance music
rising up from all quarters like weeds
in an untended yard. I’m quite sure
that was real, she says, as she tosses scraps
to the gray muzzled dog nosing at her feet.
And that old farmhouse we rented
on the rutted road by the lake—
Remember? It had the clock
above the fireplace that never kept time
and made us late for everything.
Her words lie in a heap by the dog
now asleep on an old hooked rug
and a bleary voice responds, darling,
something on the stove is burning.