Sunday Lunch
Your cardigans were
pressed and ironed like fresh sheets
on a cold bed, that coated my skin
and made it white.

Hair sticking up in different directions
because you were unaware that the
recliner you sat on was …

I hear you in the morning.

I hear you in the smudges of my mirror,
between the creases of the sheets.

You’re smiling.

You’re dancing in the milky paths
of my cereal bowl and tapping on
the white marks of …