I wanted to buy you something
so beautiful it would hurt.
I looked at candles, sniffed their artificial scents.
Went to another store.
Looked at everything and found nothing
that fit, just right, to answer my need.
Even my attempts to conjure creating myself
what I craved to gift to you were stifled
by economy and the sure feeling
I could not make what I wanted,
if indeed anyone could.
So I abandoned the search empty-handed
except for strawberry candies from France—
very sweet, but not begot by angels’ harps.
