By Hari B Parisi

Wasn’t the house on a small rise?
You had to park on the street and climb.
Concrete steps.
I slept in the one bedroom.
You, in the mud room, though we didn’t know to call it that.
Don’t remember how we met.
Why we moved in together.
So close, so fast.
We thought it’d be a lifetime.
Your guy must have been friends with my guy.
Don’t recall the exact year.
You were from Hawaii.
I’d never known a wahini.
You never called yourself that.
Smart and smart-mouthed, good cook, when you did.
I was hopeless, except for hamburgers and a soup
my dad would make for the family on occasion.
We did a lot of drugs.
Always the music.
People came and went. You stayed.
So did I.
Think we ran out of money when the rent was due.
Did we even work?
Lost each other.
You married your guy. I, mine.
When I think of you, I miss you with a stab.
The way you laughed with your head thrown back.
Got angry in your eyes.
In my mind the house is yellow.
Our house was yellow.

About the Author

Hari B Parisi’s (formerly Hari Bhajan Khalsa) poems have been published in numerous journals, most recently in The Blood Pudding, Anacapa Review and, Black Fox Literary Magazine. She is the author of three volumes of poetry, including She Speaks to the Birds at Night While They Sleep, winner of the 2020 Tebot Bach Clockwise Chapbook Contest. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband.

Website: https://haribpoet.com/
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