This Could Be Enough

We are warm with Mojitos
and your stories of Poland

and your verities about men
who fear intimacy.

This sisterhood could almost be enough
and still it isn’t, we know.

And those men —
the ones who fear intimacy

               and the ones that don’t —
they won’t be enough either.

But this evening
of muddled longing and rage,

me in my red skirt,
you in your summer dress,

the man at the far table
glowering in lust,

the ditsy waiter
(his gaze greened by a fleeting memory
of rains in Mangalore),

the embrace
of this gently hysterical city,

and the hours deemed happy
by the gods
of Tuesday night,

is all we really need to remember.

Ten years later,
               and maybe sooner,
we won’t ask for more.