Careless with Calendars

I met her in late September—
my shaky, my unsuspecting hello.
She was red wine with eyes like spring grass
that hypnotized me down
and into my chair.

Words were exchanged—simple, smooth, common
to the wide-eyed. And I was
wide-eyed. And I have been
ever since that first, that one—
a hand so close

I could feel its weight through the white sheet
of her sister’s basement bed. She was my October
cinnamon in March. Her lips,
pearls and poppies I could never have
my fill. And so,

I’ve thrown out many calendars
since that weight. I’ve tossed them
and so many other things down
and into landfills. Years
measured by names—

events jotted down like hope,
like anniversaries would come.
And here I was again.

A name on September, hoping
but likely knowing somewhere
that my wide-eyes were in the way.

She wasn’t the one. This wouldn’t last.
But I still tried, scraping the blade up
because it was autumn and without cinnamon,
without eyes that could hold me
and just know.

So I opened my shirt
and everything else so that she
could force me into ideas.
But I’m just not the type
to fit.

about the author
Gina Marie Giardina is a Technical Writer at Wright-Patterson Air
Force Base (WPAFB) and an adjunct English Instructor at Clark State
Community College. She is also active in WPAFB diversity initiatives and is
in the early stages of forming a Writing Club with local high school
students through anti-bullying non-profits GLSEN and Youth First (of PFLAG).
In her spare time, she enjoys walking in the Glen, hanging with friends at
local restaurants with yummy wine, writing in Woodland Cemetery, traveling,
and shooting hoops anywhere that has nets on rims.  She is also the mama of
two four-legged critters, Watson and Emerson.