Ann
by Herman de Coninck
I remember myself most. How, all of a sudden I had one
wife, instead of now and then this love or that.
And how we had to love each other, instead of simply
falling in love sometimes.
I used to sit in bars, boasting about how beautiful you were,
and shy, and brash too, until my women friends would say:
why don’t you just go and be in love at home —
and how I still needed to order that one last drink.
I remember how silently you sat sometimes, hugging
your knees; how you wanted to be all sorts of women
for me, if only I’d be there.
And how, too young, I was unable to receive so much.
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