Poem for Thursday, February 18, 2010

My Gunilla

I.

She sat alone upon her icy throne in her
Swedish castle, reading his letters from
fifty years ago.
He wrote to her
with a strong tan New England hand
(the same hand that commanded
a nation), he wrote to her,

I've been thinking of sailing the Mediterranean
with you, my Gunilla, as the crew...

She was blue-blooded and passion-struck
when she met him on the
French Riviera
just as any young woman would be.

He was a scholar, a politican with that
fiery charm that could make
her country burn like the tropics
(turning snowballs into coconuts).

II.

The sun set over their tryst and
one more time, he wrote to her,

Things have become so complicated...
this will be my last letter, but I will
look over and think of you, my Gunilla.

The sun set over his marriage, over
his children, over the speeding silver
ripping through his
all-American face.

She sat alone upon her icy throne in her
Swedish castle, thinking of the sand
that June, her chin resting on his arm.

She thought of him,

He was romantic and strong, but
he was not forever.

Her sobs shook the mountains, and
the sun set over them, too.