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.

Lisa Low

Lisa Low’s essays, book reviews, and interviews have appeared in The Massachusetts ReviewThe Boston ReviewThe Tupelo Quarterly, and The Adroit Journal. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of literary journals, among them Valparaiso Poetry ReviewPennsylvania EnglishFree State ReviewPhoebeAmerican Journal of Poetry, and Southern Indiana Review.