Who hasn’t rounded a corner and been startled? Stared hard at a photo taken last year when we were laughing.
Woken by winter moonlight, a face in the mirror shimmered – known un own – the shape of a jaw.
I saw your face grow younger in our touch—rooted together, two trunks growing from the same source.
You say a man shapes his life in the 7 blocks between home and work, dinner at 7:30, scratching the 7-year itch. You water weeds, flowers, knead clay from Jezebel to Eve and back. Dough rises in a warm oven and you punch it down. Merlin, you cast yourself.
In my dream I sail from two shores into open water, smoke from the fire we’d built stinging my eyes, you standing by, ax handle an exclamation in wood.
Priya Keefe’s work has appeared on a Dublin lamppost, in Seattle buses, and in Seattle City Council meetings. It has been spied in Five:2:One, The American Journal of Poetry, Outlook Springs, and elsewhere.