Maybe It Was the Year We Went to Norway

Or maybe it was Italy, in the rain, where I stood out
as a tourist with my bright pink coat and camera.

It might have been during the time we drank espresso every night
by the fishpond, as dusk fell
and the great orange fish circled with their mouths gaping.

Maybe the phone rang constantly that year, and pollen
from the pine tree dusted the garden in drifts of yellow.

I think I remember the abandoned house
on the cliffs. It’s gone now.

It might have been before the little boy across the way
waved from the porch

and later died, buried in a collapsing ditch.

Was there a man outside in the dark, or was he dreaming?

I think I remember the summer there was smoke in the hills
and we walked the ridge every afternoon.

Maybe that August someone’s daughter crashed
into the telephone pole on Center Street.

Did I only dream our house careened into the ravine?

It could have been the winter of rats in the wall
and the rattlesnake in the bedroom.

Maybe it was the fall he died and I grew small,
and the wren was trapped in the attic.