Mistake

Mistake

For three months of my life,
I lived on the west shore of Lake Tahoe
in a cabin with no insulation
in a town with just one market
where I stocked groceries on frozen mornings
while my partner helped people on and off ski lifts.
There was nothing else to do that winter
but feed the wood stove and walk our dog,
and of course we had sex, lots of it,
because that is what you do
when you are 23 and poor
and trying not to notice
the big mistake you made.
We were sick most of that stretch,
and the firewood ran out, and even
the dog grew snappy,
and still we hung on like there was a point.
When we finally broke free,
loaded the car and headed back to Berkeley,
those cold blue days
were tied to our bumper,
though it took us some time
to notice.