Do you remember—
we lingered, delinquent, in the garden
under the dusk tent of a plum tree,
while guests filed inside
to folding chairs. Invisible to them,
except for the pale lantern of my dress,
we pulled bird-scarred fruit
from low branches. You held a plum,
blue-red as a bruise, to my lips
as the violinist sent us her serenade
on a raft of voile curtains,
as summer lost ground to autumn.
Can you still see that moment—
your arm outstretched,
me leaning in, the plum
about to be tasted.