“The Collector” by Suzanne Highland

When you came close enough, I wore you like a raincoat.

Black lakes, big hands, a party

 

you ignored me at. When asked to define dreams

you drew a circle and wrote FEARS

 

in it. I kept your baby photos, empty bottles

in my wine rack, kept reaching

 

into my bag for a hole at the bottom

I might’ve missed. They say trashing magazines

 

can do the trick—get rid of what does not bring you

closer. I cut the mouths out of advertisements,

 

blacked out

nearly everything:

 

You                             a lake

you

 

                                 you

 

You at the party and I call and call.

 

If I were a street sign I’d be

No Dumping Allowed.

 

But I’m not a street sign. Me at the bottom of a hill

and you with a dog and he’s pulling on you to

 

Let’s go. We used to make collecting

a habit, our cups in the cabinet, stacked

 

by season. In summer I used to drink from your

Christmas mug, but now you have it.