His Sweatshirt

You ask me what he likes to eat
but I only remember his sweatshirt
gray like a sun-blanched tent,
more thread than weave at the edges.

He never cared about seams,
all flaps open to the wind
even in the broken glass of winter
the night he brought me a potted jade
its lower leaf puckered and brown
like an old man’s face.

He said you gave him the plant
and he wanted me to keep it
as if my apartment were a museum
he might visit on Sundays
when the admission was free.

But I never asked him for anything
not even the shaker of salt
when we ate the ears of corn I boiled.

He preferred them roasted on the grill
but it was my beer, my kitchen
where we grew old telling stories about you,
how he used to be your lover
or maybe he invented that.

I wish I could say he ate well
but he left random kernels on the cob
like broken teeth, a music roll
he might play back if I had a piano,
notes bouncing ragtime but sad,
the way he could reach into your soul.

You told me that once,
the morning we awoke in Montana
when I thought you were talking about me.

Terry Tierney is the author of The Poet’s Garage and the novels Lucky Ride (December 2021) and The Bridge on Beer River (July 2023), all published by Unsolicited Press. His poems have recently appeared in Remington Review, Rust and Moth, Typishly, Valparaiso Poetry Review, The Lake and other publications. His website is http://terrytierney.com.