I should have walked away,

That afternoon under the hot August sun,

When you held my hand but pushed me away

And pleaded with me to understand.

Your brother stood on the veranda, his gaze a baleful glare.

Your mother wilted in her bedroom under the whirr of ceiling fans.

Your father, the Judge, sat in his customary suit and tie in the parlor.

It was the time of revelation, redemption day for us both.

They should know the truth of us, our love, and the life that we planned.

But you couldn’t. You said the heat made you weak.

It was hot, hot and so humid that breathing seemed like swimming.

Our clothes clung to our skin, and I realized

That the famous Delta girl “glow” was just Southern Nice for Delta girl sweat.

You blamed the weather, the long drive, and everything else,

I knew your family had defeated us and shamed you back into their great proper fold.

I should have turned and not said a word, just driven back to the coast and left you there.

Maybe they would have at least let you live.

But I was young and you were young and we were in love.

How were we to know that this love of ours would kill you?

Sometimes I still think it killed part of me, too.

I left whatever part died with you buried beside your grave,

There in the fertile dirt, the sometimes mud, near the Mississippi river.

I am the one who did not look back.

I did not see you standing there ,

Your hand on the screen door,

Like you held it open for my return.

I am the one who threw your letters away.

I did not read your scrawled descriptions of daily life,

Your address still at our old house,

Like you considered me briefly away on a trip.

I am the one who flung our promise in the dirt.

I never looked down at the line on my finger,

The lighter outline itself still a ring,

Like you retained a connection through my skin.

I do not miss you.

I do not think of you.

I do not remember your name.

I am the one who left.