By: Mary Kane

I said I said we ought to eat more poetry in translation until we learn to read Spanish and Japanese, but though I said I said it, I didn’t say it; I only said I did. But it was enough, my saying I said it because we did it then. We went to the library on Monday morning, we waited at the doors before they were open, we waited for them to open, we held call numbers on little slips of paper in our gloved hands, we held poetry book treasure maps we drew on scraps all because I said I said something I hadn’t actually said and I saw how effective it could be. So, I tried it on other things. I said I said all kinds of things to see if you could remember what I said and what I said I said, and sometimes you did, fondly, and sometimes you did, with anger, and we got into brambles of memory where I never wanted to go until I wished I’d never said anything. You said I said all kinds of things which I never said, and then we kissed to see if it would divert our attention, and then I said I said something about tiny horses you could fold up and keep in a matchbox, and when you opened it they’d unfold themselves and gallop across the tabletop or carpet or into the stacks in the library, and though you didn’t believe I ever said it, you liked them, the horses, and we so enjoyed ourselves and drank coffee, which is very often the best kind of love there is.