Already, we'd be driving past those trees, that part of the forest. Even briefly, it refreshed you. It was like mint in August though that sting would be gone with summer. The ground tarnishing first, and soon the leaves. I thought then, men don't stop. They want so much to get on. What we said, incidental yet hammered into the mind. Talk like a magnet, so it draws you together or away. We made a line around that part of the forest, the exact shape of our attention. Even after, I remember how it was taken up and moved along with us, into the dim living room. Each holding a glass, ice colliding in water. A tiny mirrored sun caught in the trees. The same sadness that darkened our features. Later, bed without making love, without the chance of a reprieve.
"Mint" from Not To: New & Selected Poems, published by The Sheep Meadow Press. Copyright © 2006 by Elaine Terranova. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Born in 1939, Elaine Terranova was selected by Rita Dove for the 1990 Walt Whitman Award for her debut collection The Cult of the Right Hand
Date Published: 2006-01-01
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/mint