He should have told her that light is his symbol.
He should have told her what stones say.
He should have told her he’d carry her books, pack, charms.
He should have told her his real name in the park where the trees grow like statues.
He should have told her how he feared what was underneath.
He should have told her his favorite flower, flavor, fondnesses.
He should have told her how he’d played on the monkey bars.
(He did but he couldn’t say whether she’d heard or understood)
He should have told her why that hurt had dried in the shape of a fish.
He should have told her to add salt to boiling water.
He should have given her a list of jokes, things to bring home from far away.
He should have given her paintings about patience.
He should have assembled the sky out of the zest of black suns.
He should have given her things to refuse, like flowers, chicken farms.
He should have given her attention in crowded rooms.
He should have given her roses, fawns, a kiss in the rain.
He should have given her blood, a knife to strike with, because that’s how wounds are healed.
He should have given her spells.
He should have brightened her mood and her windows.
He should have brightened the cave where waters echo, drip.
He should have lengthened the day, the night, the hours in between.
He should have loosened, tightened, taken off, stuck, adumbrated.
He should have stood by, stood long, even as she went back for something lost.
He should have followed when she strode in the shadows of mountains.
He should have followed her down the hill.
He should have followed her into pools of blood.
He should have counted her footsteps, her breaths when he couldn’t sleep.
He could have could have could have could have
Caught her on the last day of the world.
They could have gone down into the city together.
Where the lights crash the sky.
