You carve our names “E+K” into the ancient oak behind your daddy’s church in hopes I’ll see, but I’ve grown tired of playing your endless
games. My drawers overflow with your teeny-tiny top-secret messages penned on newspaper scraps— “I miss you,” “meet me behind the old Bulto Market,”
and “kiss me, dearest Kate, I’m dying for you.” Just words. I need more than blue-eyed winks and brief hidden embraces. My love needs
sunshine—warm, bright, radiating fire so vibrant it can’t be stoppered or hidden. Explosive volcano love, running thick down our bodies. Popcorn love, loud hot
buttery passion devoured with both hands. Instead, you give me your blurry photograph standing at 301 Caroline Street, our secret kissing place. You write in
sweeping curvy letters “this is not very clear, but it’s still me. Eddie.” Blurry love is what you offered, thinking I’d accept, but I deserve
someone who wants our love to be broadcasted, shouted, screamed into the streets. Bullhorn loud love. Free to be me love. So, I chased you
onto the old bridge, calling out through hot tears, “choose all of me or none of me.” The bright moonlight stretched my dark shadow so
it covered you entirely as you walked away without looking back. My young love never wavered, but yours wasn’t brave enough to fight. It’s funny
now, finding your thoughtless dare scrawled in ink, “see how long you can keep this.” I kept it forever, blurry Eddie. Not for you, though
for me.
I stayed in focus.
Shoebox Poetry: This is the second poem in my series based on an old box of photos I inherited when my grandmother died in 2004. I don’t have any idea who Eddie was, but I wanted to rewrite a possible old love story as a moment of empowerment for my grandmother. She was a fierce woman and I like to think she kept this photograph as a reminder of her strength. If someone out there happens to know Eddie, sorry. This is pure fiction and I’m sure he is/was a lovely man.
