Your Marie

Every time I see the name Marie
sometimes I can't help but think of her
your Marie at fifteen who allowed
your fingers to roam the loamy furrows
of her body and taught you how
a man was. I want to tell you
that I think that it was she I saw
last week at a reading. She said her name
was Marie the way you said it
and threw her head back and laughed
so that her eyes opened as wide
as her smile and I knew this
had to be her the one you loved
so long ago so much.
You should know her hair was auburn,
a flag of copper stars glittering
against the curve of her neck
and the strand that kissed her cheek
I knew you'd kissed when she left you
for the last time while her hips rolled
when she walked away
and her breasts in dreams even now
the ones you prayed into.