I know your existence 

is uninterrupted, that you

do not disappear in this 

house. But I am always 

startled to see you 

emerge, distinguished, 

and marking our calendar

with red ink—astounded 

to find you outside 

of the day’s tunnel, again,

your body stirring in soft 

feathery moments, 

unfettered from the clasp 

of Time’s dark tendrils, 

slicing grapefruit

in morning sun, and 

licking sweet juice

from the blade 

of the paring knife. 

In an old sepia photo, 

set in a wilderness 

of to-do’s on our fridge,

you stand on a sidewalk, 

before I knew you, 

as if preserved 

in amber—the path 

never-ending, veering 

continuously into 

the darkness behind you.

And I want to track back

down the cement path

with you, untangling 

your small feet 

from shadows 

like brushwood 

along the journey—

the two of us pointed 

to an era before this one, 

tiny and lopsided but sure

of ourselves. I examine 

your posture 

in the photograph, 

how your butterfly hips 

cut a path of newness 

before you. You remind 

me of a darling little 

fledgling, newly fallen 

to earth from a tree 

you tell me doesn’t exist 

anymore. In the 

monotonous kitchen 

light, I peer into this 

four-sided sample 

of life—it is easy for me 

to isolate who you are 

in an moment. And here,

almost midnight; 

I watch you suck 

a moist wedge of lime 

dry with tea before bed, 

your face half-

concealed in nightfall, 

a side of you 

always hidden from me.