by Jonathan Jones
I think of my old lover like a bar just after
seven on an early summer evening.
You can still see the clock on the wall,
the peppermint taste of green shade in -
between conversation. We came here
and listened while late April played
on her coat a dark pattern of stars like dusk.
And if this were, indeed, the burning
of the world, I’d think of a moment
spoken in Roman numerals, like her hand
on my back, quite small, or absence in a crowd,
quite small, enough to smile at things,
not worth saving with quiet joy. The warm
press of corduroy and the sun oil scent
of her body, old ruins waking, rented property,
and her hair dark wine,
Jonathan Jones lives and works in Rome where he teaches at John Cabot University. He has a PhD in literature from the University of Sapienza, and his novella, My Lovely Carthage, was published in the spring of 2020 from J. New Books.