in memory of Mark Resta

I try to forget you and the plucked flower
I've become, a cherry blossom
     in the Tidal Basin,
     the meaty pulp
     in the grooves
     of shoes.

When Roberto tells me to look at him,
I remember how you said: I'm looking for someone else.
     turned into night.
     Blossoms contracted on tiny hinges,
     fused together like hands
     aligned in prayer.

Sweet Jesus, what have I become, a woman
who prizes an album pressed with flowers
     like my mother
     who keeps a snapshot
     of John Frederick
     beneath our family's
     address labels?

Daily she opens the cluttered drawer,
roots in the dark for a permanent marker,
     while I sleep with a man
     who will never say
     I love you,
     who will never
     have the chance.