LOVE OF MY LIFE

We were like bookends, like Rodin’s thinkers,
pressed back-to-back to hold each other up,
preventing the grief we felt when apart.
But for all my happiest memories,
clutched to my chest like golden bells, and
made permanent, fresh and undying,
like bright yellow window sill daffodils,
I have other memories, best kept
in my pockets like secrets. In this one,
he’s charging me like a bull. In this one,
he’s grinding my face to a wall. And
in this one, tucked like a rose at the bottom
of my heart, it’s our honeymoon and
he’s pushing me down the stairs.