EASEMENT

by Jameson Fitzpatrick

I didn't know what to call the sudden
green glimpse from the road, lush
but low, from which rose a line of 

utility poles, all in pairs, so that together
they gave the impression of a long 

succession of gates leading somewhere 

greener still. This was a common feature 

of the landscape against which I grew up.

But this one, loved, because it was 

on the way to my boyfriend's,

two towns over, where it brought me such 

pleasure to drive, singing along to the songs 

we made ours. Hours into months.

For an anniversary he gave me a Polaroid 

of this place I'd point out, though the curve

was steep there and the glimpse brief.

How he'd taken it he'd never tell.

Once dumped, I cut the photo up.

This was what is meant by "a lifetime ago."

That time before you I call my childhood, 

when there were many boyfriends to lose

and the songs I played were not yet a portal 

to anything. Now, coming up on a view 

of a much sharper drop, I'm surprised

to think of him only fondly and in passing.

To give you permission to cut through me, 

as needed, on your way down to sweetness.