I’m not that girl in the flowered car,
bent with beads and anger.
I’m not the girl you married
almost against her will.
I’m not sorry I left the blue
of your eyes, Caribbean deep blue sea.
I am sorry I never came back,
never called, never wrote. Thirty-four years.
I’m sorry it mattered and I didn’t know.
Sorry I didn’t care. But then
I’d never be who I am now.
You’d never be where you are
sifting through the ashes – a very cold fire.