How cruel
the altar that christened you
into a second body
brings not-you before me
to rouse you
from my memory
where I’ve let you rest
a decade—more—
as though you had died.
Have you died
I want to ask
this woman with your name
like letters tether you
Or are you where I lost you:
in the dusty palm of Michigan
long-sleeved for cold and collapse
your eyes glassed,
glasses gone
along with every book,
eight teeth,
your only child.
I write your name
and below it
my own.
