I used to wish that when it was all over,

I’d be able to visit an alternate universe 

where we’d be our true selves again: you 

in your fifties, me visiting from college, my heart 

years away from knowing what breaking was, 

my arms resting on the cool Spanish tiles 

while you made drinks. We’d go out to the patio, 

dangle our feet in the double-hexagon pool, 

a cubist infinity symbol, and I’d tell you the story 

of how it all happened. I’d skip over the worst parts, 

like how they tried to put you on antipsychotic drugs

because you went naked into the dining room 

and it was upsetting to people who were visiting 

their fully clothed parents. Instead, I’d start 

with an abridged version of the car accident. 

Then I’d tell you the funny things you said 

when you started to go off the deep end.

I’d describe the pretty silver of your hair, 

and tell you how everyone always loved you 

no matter how crazy you became,

even if they didn’t know you before. 

Because you were always still you, somehow.

We’d have gin and tonics with triangles of lime, 

and our glasses would sweat pleasantly

while our feet swayed back and forth

in the silky and luminous water. The lights 

of Los Angeles would still obscure the stars,

but you would fill the universe around us 

with your radiant face and your radiant eyes

and your radiant soul. You’d say how wonderful 

this life is, no matter what. You’d tell me 

I handled everything exactly right, just as you knew 

I would. Later, we’d curl up on opposite ends 

of the Danish sofa, where just by sitting together, 

even with all that happened, we’d remember 

how lucky we are. You’d get out your brushes 

and your ink, and write in the air, in the calligraphy 

of your unmistakable hand, ad astra per aspera: 

to the stars, through difficulties.

​

 

(published in duality)