Meg Hurtado

We were supposed to meet today; we decided this ten years ago, on a patio. We would meet in a little California town known for its songbirds.

Only the day was that day; so I said, Let’s pretend it’s yesterday, September 10. Or maybe I said, Let’s pretend it’s tomorrow, September 12.

I never could remember which it was supposed to be, though the decade flown has included many roadside stops of the mind wherein I wondered.

Maybe you remember and think it silly because, yes, I was cruel back then. Maybe you didn’t remember and will smile at this poem, or not smile.

For me, the room fills with phantom magnolia, wet brick. Anyway, what’s a little cruelty? History, once rigged, stays rigged forever. Songbirds come back anytime.