Narrative

The Arrival 
For Molly Davis 
Like the ghosts around us 
rooted in memory, 
your underwear in the dresser 
gleaming like the mica in sand, 
two loaves of bread 
together in an oven, removed-- 
It's because I'll feel you soon 
that I see these things. 
The cardinals turn their 
heads in unison to the 
sound of late afternoon thunder, 
and the cat peers quietly 
from the front yard elm 
to the house window-- 
where your toothbrush leans 
heavy against mine. 
It's because I need you 
I see these things. 
The wind envelops me as 
I drive, and I'm reminded 
that with every mile, 
the etch-a-sketch of you 
and I slowly emerges like 
a dark room photograph, 
but my eyes, my two ruins 
of translation, stop at nothing, 
and your door, this pinhole of God, 
arrives from a place where dark 
nor light has focus. 
Love, memory of another, 
I'm here now. 
My skin tingles suddenly, and 
the coldness inside, strangely enough, 
veers around to let me through.