After the first year every day becomes
an anniversary of some this or that
of an early romance, an excuse
we celebrate: The first date, the first kiss,
the first naked greeting, the first drunken
walk through town because you locked
the keys in the car, the first three hundred
and sixty-five things that made us older;
made us stale.
After the first year every day drowns
beneath waves of nostalgia. We become
the people of forced traditions
and mimicked smiles; shallow
reenactments made passable only
by too much wine, and as autumn eases
into winter, too much bourbon.
After the first year every day is nothing
new and so we return to the older
ways of undoing; tearing apart the past,
moment by moment, until we have
nothing left to carry when we begin
the next first year.
If you have any comments on this poem, James Wardell would be
pleased to hear from you.