I give her a bag of oranges.
Each one is marked-up
with love poems,
maps of our relationship.

I tell her if she wants
to eat one she will have to peel
the fact that I still love her.

She gives me her gift,
a collection of NY Times' puzzles.
There are over 20,000 clues.
"Great" I say "Now I can
stop buying all those newspapers."

We go to an Italian restaurant.
The waitress spills Chiante on my jacket.
"Let me help you" I say,
and pour more of it on my sleeve.
"We're getting separated" Sara explains.

It is inevitable that parts of salad
will land all around us.
I begin with olive tossing
in her general direction.
Next course, carbonara,
"No" Sara is saying.
"Care for some parmesan?" I say.

She drives me home,
we witness two car accidents.
I tell her to quit running red lights,
but she's a zombie,
the Jessupian Frankenstein,
sewn together with parts of desire.

At the house I push
her hat away from her eyes.
She's crying.
She wants to go back to the day she left
and stay this time,
but I remind her
that if we go back
we have to go back ten years.
I tell her, we can't go that far
on one tank of gas,
not even in her mother's Buick.

"What if we get out and walk?" she says.