Directions by Shanna Hale
I.
North depends on which way you are looking.
II.
The phone shrills; he is crying.
My hand droops
under the weight of a diamond
as I console a man who is not my husband.
III.
Moonlight and summer air played with cliches
I was not thinking of on the night
he almost kissed me.
I had directions to the end of my life,
but was squeamish I would walk alone.
We’d played the dating game;
he’d seen me through treatment centers,
I held him when his uncle died;
together we’d almost made it
to the end of the road.
With graduation a scant year away,
we’d ended up there, beside a boat
masquerading as an ‘84 Olds,
a summer night were the word “us”
held no more significance than Juliet’s sleep.
Senior portraits glimmered in the streetlight.
His arms rested easily around my waist.
But since he never had,
I didn’t think he would,
and turned my head.
His North lay on a different path;
that night our compasses spun,
and I drove away.
IV.
As I slowly hang up, floundering in
pivotal moments and “what ifs,”
my husband laments, knowing the wistful look
will never be for him.
V.
I no longer walk alone, but tread softly
under the ghost of the kiss
that did not change my life.
Another man’s ring now graces my finger,
and North will always be the other way.
