For Peter Lake.
I still see you — haze of tweed, loafers, and cake
running towards the pub, rain pelting your back,
hair already fading white when I blew out the candles
how does it feel to be young; I could not answer
that night — noise, free beers, every man watching
me in red, a dress you bought but, I could only
see you, so handsome with your face alcohol-lit,
you, who quoted Cocteau, Whitman, Proust,
carried me home in the storm and laid me down
in your quiet room, four o’clock, I woke to puke;
found you on the couch, chest rising tiredly under
the weight of a book; I wrapped you in a quilt and
said a prayer — for longevity, past the red dress,
past numbering candles, to when I am wrapped
in a blanket, book on my lap, grey in my hair.
Jacqueline Thomas is a Literature major with a Creative Writing focus at Ramapo College of New Jersey. She intends to continue on to a Graduate-PhD program and receive her PhD in Comparative Literature.