Brie

— Diane Lee Moomey

I’ve opened a Brie for you,
opened and set it where its firm white shoulders
will slump into the warmth of afternoon
and where such breeze
as there is today will carry the news of “Brie”
all down my hill and out to the Coast Road,
where you may be driving.

There is French bread, and wine, red.,

Now Yo-Yo Ma is at full volume
(in case you are driving by), and before that
I opened the Neruda to the poem
that seemed to summon you the last time,
and read aloud his final stanza twice,
read aloud his final stanza twice.

Fresh linens are on the bed.

And I have trimmed the ivy, cut every spent
camellia blossom and swept its brownness
from beneath the pots that cluster near the door
where today you might knock and bring
a poem, like you did before.

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