Can't Get Over Her

My nephew is distressed that he's still

in love with the girl who went back to her boyfriend—

the one who's not good enough for her.

When he ran into her again, she had that same bright laugh,

like the shine on an apple, and the wind rose

reaching up into the limbs and fluttering

the leaves in the whole apple tree.

But when she left, it hit him all over.

She was headed for her boyfriend's house, she'd walk

quickly in the brittle March night.

He'd have a fire going. She'd unlace her boots

and offer him her mouth, her lips still cold,

velvet tongue warm in that satin cape.

He didn't tell me all this,

of course, but who hasn't longed

for that girl? that boy? He's mad

at himself that he can't get over her.

He's young and he's got goals, quit

smoking, gave up weekend drunks. Now he tackles

model airplane kits, one small piece at a time.

He wants to learn mastery. Sweet man.

Should we tell him the truth?

That he'll never get over her. Love

is a rock in the surf off the Pacific. Life

batters it. No matter how small it gets

it will always be there—grain of sand

chafing the heart. I still love

the boy who jockeyed cars, expertly

in the lots on New York Avenue,

parking them so close, he had to lift his lithe body

out the window those sultry August afternoons.

He smelled of something musky and rich—distinctive

as redwoods in heat.

I still long for him

like a patriot exiled from the motherland,

a newborn switched in the hospital, raised

in the wrong family. Each year that passes

is one more I miss out on. His children

are not mine. Even their new

step-mother is not me. When she complains

how hard she tries, how little they appreciate it,

I think how much better off he'd be with me.

And when he has grandchildren

they won't be mine either. And when he's dying—

even if I go to him—I'll be little more

than a dumb bouquet, spilling my scent.

We don't get over any of it. The heart

is stubborn and indefatigable. And limitless.

That's how I can turn to my beloved, now,

with the awe the early rabbis must have felt

opening the Torah. And when she pulls me to her,

still, after all these years, I feel like I did

the first time I stood in front of Starry Night.

I had never known, never imagined

its life beyond the flat, smooth surface

of the textbook. Had never conceived

there could be these thick swirls of paint,

the rough-edged cobalt sky, the deep 

spiraling valleys of starlight.

Ellen Bass