The way you tilt your head with arms unfolding makes me wish I was a mirror so that I too
would know how to be beautiful.
Have you ever seen an angel so clothed?
When you cry at night with eyes closed and mouth open, I think I can hear you thinking.
There’s something slow and light blue about the way you blink at me and, to be honest, I
wish I was your eyes because maybe then I could see the soft, soft world the way you see it and the universe, in its infinite grace, would turn me beautiful just like it did you.
There was that July of playing chicken with that kid from prayer group and touching your
cigarettes to your fingertips and shouting, “Go, go, go!”
And that winter of daring each other to climb the fence of the junkyard while the dog nipped
at our heels.
You are cool grass under summer feet so I write in the margins you + me and with their
marker swords they chant “kay-eye-ess-ess-eye-en-gee!”
Yesterday it rained cats and dogs and I did not go out.
“Hello my lovely,” when you rang the doorbell, “I’ve a sweater on” and you laughed and
laughed like I’m a clown in a circus, like I’m so obscenely foolish that it’s charming.
You smiled at me:
“Christ on a cracker,” I said, “I can see god.”