as i drift into sleep in the afterglow of terri

a little sore

i recite my mantra

recite the names of the people i love

a short list 

but rich in quality

and with my last fading thought i whisper

i am the luckiest girl in the history of the universe

because i am   

it isn't just terri 

it's terri and mark and smoker

and talana and andrea and tom and celle and even alitosh

though i barely know her

it's the place   the climate   the atmosphere

the countryside   the hills 

the groves of hazelnuts   the goats and horses

the sweep of it

but it is terri that pulls it all together   her joy   her radiance

her ability to give

perhaps give too readily

that was then   i am not so quick with my last fading thought

terri is gone   now there is marketa

now there is a house with a blue door and red ristras

on a quiet street

with wafting aromas of smokey piñon and dusty arroyos

now we are adults with adult concerns

we have joy   but life and desires are not as simple   nor as primal 

as they were when terri was sweet sixteen

and i was one year older   

when our world was nothing but salty mists and wonder

i still recite the names of the people i love   

but when it comes time to whisper something about luck i hesitate

does happiness depend on luck   i wonder

to come to the point of the poem   

i have marketa   no one else can say that 

and i have certainty   which i never had with terri or anyone else

and perhaps that does make me t/l/g/i/t/h/o/t/u   

or perhaps i should forego the hyperbole   and say 

i am one lucky girl