How could I lose the name of city,

a town, a whole country and a river.

What was that city with its gold museum,

its grey sky and a chill.

Shanties tilted on hillsides

and higher still grand mansions.

And that pastel town -- what was its name -- with its steep streets

that would have left me short of breath

had you not placed your hand on my back

to help me climb.

Where was it that you picked

yellow daisies, rosemary, and Queen Anne's Lace?

Wild flowers, you said

for my wild woman.

In Ireland, what was that river where we slapped

mosquitoes on its banks and embraced

on a blanket so thin

the sharp grasses scratched our legs.

Ten months later, you were dead.

Only then did I remember

Lima, Cuzco, Portugal and the River Lee.