Hothouse

By Molly Tompkins

You proposed forever, 

Twisting your knuckles above, 

The honeyed veins of the tree Top 

Table, in the corner of the coffee shop 

Where we met, the first time, of many. 

I put my hands over 

Yours, easing the nerves that struck 

Like hammers through your skin, 

Merely at the thought of pressing a key 

Into a wood lock that could stir into a living room. 

Your eyes shone. 

I never would have foreseen you, 

gone. 

How many proposals do you think this tree saw? Thousands, you traced the raw 

patches beneath the lacquer. 

Fairies, princes, hikers who scaled the mountain, That sounds like the beginning of a tale. 

I thought you broke the promise, 

But now, watching what the tabletop witnessed— Scarred with stirred stars and run rivers, 

Stained with birthmarks and unlashed eyes, I realize such proposals can’t crack. 

Branches, light enough for children and the sun, Dated into calendars and captive chairs, 

That prop scenes for romantic affairs, 

Corner tables set with one-days, 

Until, one day, there never need 

Come Another.